


Tell All The Truth, But Tell It Slant

by cuddlesandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (some) humor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunker Fic, Drama, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mild Language, Post-Season/Series 08, Supernatural Canon Big Bang 2020, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesandcas/pseuds/cuddlesandcas
Summary: A cursed object gets touched, truths start coming out, and emotions reluctantly with them.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 151
Collections: Supernatural Canon BigBang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _*puts conductor hat on*_  
>  Let's hop on this train! Please have your tickets ready to take a ride into what might've happened after season 8 if everything hadn't been so tragic and dramatic in the season finale and beyond that. Of course, since this is our boys we're talking about, there _will_ be some drama though it's about the average amount and I do try to inject some humor into it.
> 
> This fic train would've taken much longer to arrive if it weren't for the mods who conduct the [SPN Canon Big Bang](https://spncanonbigbang.tumblr.com), so a lot of thanks to them for taking the time and effort to do so. It's been so exciting to be part of a bang again! :D  
> Major thanks to the lovely [Maleyah](https://maleyah-givemetomorrow.tumblr.com/) for betaing this and for being so patient and supportive when this fic kept fighting me. And of course a shout-out to [Chantelle](https://queernatural.tumblr.com/) for their help and suggestions on my very first attempt at this far too long ago.
> 
> And of course, **so much love** to the wonderful [Blucifer](i-am-the-blue-sunshine.tumblr.com/) for the [art](https://i-am-the-blue-sunshine.tumblr.com/post/626284235202969600/read-it-here) they made for this fic!
> 
> And now, _*blows train whistle*_ : Onward!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it's not super clear, the season 8 finale didn't quite happen the same way here as it did in the show. So, no Naomi hunting Metatron down or proclaiming death for our dear Sam, and no secret double agendas from our weasely little scribe. Everything's as above-board as you'd expect/hope for dimension locking trials (or whatever you'd like to call it) and the boys just really need a vacation (though this is not that fic unfortunately).

Sam glances up from the tome in front of him at the sound of footsteps approaching. “Hey. Find anything interesting?”

Cas carefully sets down the books he’s carrying as he replies, “Not according to Dean, no.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Is he still griping?”

Cas tips his head in acknowledgment. “He’s gotten rather bored.”

“What a surprise,” Sam says dryly. “We’ve only been at this for a day, so he’s going to have to suck it up.”

Cas shrugs agreeably.

“What about you?”

“I think I have a reasonably higher threshold for such work than Dean does,” Cas replies easily, “so there’s no need to worry.”

Sam snorts. ‘ _Small blessings,’_ he thinks. “How’re things looking?”

“We’ve cleared up some more space near the front of the storeroom for whatever items you’ve finished cataloging.”

Sam nods, smiling slightly. “Good. That’s great, Cas.” He glances at the haphazard pile next to his table. “Fingers crossed I should have it done by tonight.”

Cas squints. “What does crossing my fingers achieve?”

“Uh, nothing.” Sam’s lips purse in an amused smile. “You don’t actually have to do it, it’s just a good luck superstition thing.”

Cas’ squint changes marginally, like he’s wondering why Sam was giving such things merit and was debating actually asking. Before he can sideline a discussion he doesn’t really have answers for, Dean wanders up to them with a loud, “Alright, nerds, time for a break.” 

Wiping his hands off on his jeans, Dean makes a show of checking the time. “It’s officially lunchtime, and I am _starving_.”

“Reheated leftovers?”

Dean makes a face at Sam. “After being buried down here with all this junk, I want some fresh air _and_ fresh food.”

“Burgers?” Sam guesses dryly.

Dean smirks, eyebrows raised in a _‘You know it,’_ expression. He darts a glance at Cas before clapping him on the shoulder. “You still like burgers, right, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, deadpan. “Just because I was made to ‘binge’ on them by Famine’s influence in the past doesn’t mean it’s made me entirely averse to them.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Though it has taught me the wisdom of moderation.”

Dean snorts, lips quirked up in an amused smile.

“Good, ‘cause I ain’t buying you a hundred burgers. I ain’t no rich sugar daddy.”

“You’re not made of sugar, nor are you my father, Dean.”

Sam snorts. Hiding his amused smile, he eyes his brother.

“That’s not-” Dean says, trailing off when he sees the amused glint in Cas’ eye. “Ha ha, very funny.”

“I admit, I’m still not sure what a ‘sugar daddy’ is,” Cas says, raising his fingers up for the air quotes again. Dean’s still got no clue where he picked up that habit. It makes him look like a dork, but it’s also kinda cute, in a stupid way. He’ll bite his tongue off before admitting to it though.

“That’s a conversation for another time,” Dean says decisively. And that time will be never, as long as Dean has any say about it. Give Cas an inch and he’s liable to take a mile on his ‘learning about humanity’ questions, seemingly always directed to him instead of Sam. At this rate, the next thing Dean's going to be asked is for tips on how to jack off just because Cas is curious. And that is definitely _not_ a line of questioning he wants to be thinking about right now.

Before Cas can attempt to push for answers, Dean claps his hands together and says, “Let’s get going before my stomach decides to start eating itself.”

Cas squints at him but doesn’t comment, following after him as Dean makes his way out of the storeroom.

When he realizes Sam’s made no move to join them, Dean comes to an abrupt halt. Cas stops short just in time to avoid bumping into him.

“Come on, Sammy! Time to refuel.”

Sam shakes his head with a rueful smile, glancing down at the open tome in front of him and then at his laptop. “I’ve still got a lot to do for us to start making some headway in reorganizing this room. Just bring me back a turkey sandwich or a salad.”

“If you wanna stay here and choke to death from the dust of these ancient relics, power to you, I guess,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t forget to feed Crowley. I don’t wanna come back to deal with him being pissy.”

Sam raises a hand in acknowledgment, reluctantly pushing the book aside as he boots up his laptop. 

Dean shakes his head and claps Cas on the shoulder, nudging him along. “Come on, Cas.”

* * *

“So, how’s the burger? Good, right?” Dean asks expectantly.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas agrees, taking another bite of his burger. He chews it slowly like he’s savoring the taste, which he does for pretty much anything you put in front of him now, but Dean’ll take it for the well-deserved appreciation it is here. “This place was a good choice.”

Dean makes an agreeable noise, digging into his own burger. Mouth full, he says, “That, and you can never go wrong with a bacon cheeseburger.”

“You still haven’t explained what a ‘sugar daddy’ is.”

Dean chokes, coughing as he tries to dislodge the food that went down the wrong pipe. He thumps a fist against his chest a couple of times, eyes watering.

He blinks the tears back, brain desperately ping-ponging for an exit strategy. He’d been hoping Cas had forgotten about that. Voice a little hoarse, he says, “Let’s leave stuff like that for Sammy to teach you, huh?”

“I don’t understand why you can’t tell me yourself, Dean. It sounds unusual but not particularly shameful.” Cas’ perception skills were getting better by the day if he’d already managed to suss out that the topic was making Dean feel awkward. Not that it stops the guy from asking anyway. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t being overpowered by said awkwardness.

“Jeez, alright,” Dean says, caving under Cas’ pointed, expectant stare. He glances around quickly, making sure no one’s in earshot, before leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “So basically a sugar daddy’s a guy who buys chicks expensive stuff in exchange for sex.”

Cas squints at him. 

“I don’t understand.”

“I can’t make it any more simple than that, man,” Dean says a little plaintively. He just wants this conversation to be over; answering Cas was supposed to end this, not keep it going.

“No, I understand the concept, it’s a rudimentary barter system,” Cas says, waving his hand in front of him to dismiss Dean’s statement. It’s still weird every time Dean notices another mannerism Cas has managed to pick up and emulate in decent human mimicry after years of being as stiff as a tree. “I just don’t understand how it applies to us.”

Dean doesn’t get a chance to tell him that it _doesn’t_ apply to them because Cas keeps rambling on, lost in thought. “You bought me new clothes recently and regularly provide me with food, but I don’t trade you sexual favors for them.”

Dean immediately reassesses his earlier thought and decides he should’ve never bothered to answer. There’s no right answer anymore. To make matters worse, the waitress takes that moment to materialize at their table, looking somewhere between amused, curious, and maybe a little weirded out. Dean’s not entirely sure since he’s busy wishing that he could turn invisible, or sink into his seat and be forgotten. Anything. Maybe someone in the diner could have some kindness and give him a mercy killing.

A very, very tiny part of his brain pipes up with wanting to flirtatiously quip at Cas asking if he’d _want_ to trade sexual favors for them. He squashes that part down vehemently. Now was _not_ the time or place, besides which, he's not the kind of asshole to make Cas think he'd need to have sex with Dean for shit he's happy to give him for free. 

“You boys want a refill?” she asks, voice more or less even, and not judgmental sounding at the two weird guys she’s serving.

“Yes, please,” Cas says politely, offering his mug up to her.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean says, raising his own mug up. If she was going to pretend nothing happened, he was going to take it for the metaphorical lifesaver that it was.

“No problem, fellas,” she says, offering them a smile before heading off to serve another customer.

He quickly takes another bite of his burger before Cas gets any ideas about continuing their previous conversation, swallowing it down roughly at the squinty look Cas gives him.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to regret this. Hesitantly, he asks, “What?”

“If there are sugar fathers, are there sugar mothers as well?”

Dean groans, slapping a hand over his eyes. He can feel Cas’ gaze still on him even if he can’t see it. Coughing against the itch in his throat, he lowers the hand covering his eyes, reaching for his glass of water. He meets Cas’ gaze for a second as he sets it back down before redirecting it to look outside, finding himself muttering a reluctant response. “Probably? I don’t know. Look, can we please just drop this?”

Cas doesn’t respond, but Dean can hear the sounds of him eating a few seconds later, so he allows himself to relax a bit. Taking a sip of his coffee, he glances Cas’ way, only to find himself on the receiving end of another squinty look.

“What _now_?” Dean asks, feeling self-conscious.

“Ingesting too much caffeine can be detrimental to your health. You should consider having less.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, pointedly side-eyeing the still-steaming mug beside Cas’ elbow. Cas seems to be either blind to it or purposely ignoring his look. “This coming from the guy who needs three cups of it to wake up in the morning. Hi there, Pot, I’m Kettle.”

“That’s different,” Cas says stubbornly, and then adds with a sulky sort of frown, “I’m not a pot.”

“Sure,” Dean says, relaxing with a chuckle. “And don’t act dumb, I know you know what I meant.”

Cas sulks some more but doesn’t deny it. It makes him look like a fussy, miffed cat and Dean can’t help but find it adorable.

Cas notices Dean’s staring and probably doesn’t take too kindly to the smirking, grumbling out a “What?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re like a grumpy cat?” Dean replies idly. “It’s adorable.”

Cas’ irritable expression vanishes, morphing instead into bewildered confusion. Dean’s got no clue what’s got him looking so surprised.

“What’s-” he starts to say, straightening up, when he suddenly realizes that no, the cat comment didn’t stay inside his head where it was _supposed_ to. 

“Did you just-”

“I’m gonna-” Dean interrupts, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. He doesn’t care about how awkward he might look scrambling out of the booth so long as he wasn’t around to hear whatever Cas was about to say next.

* * *

_‘The fuck just happened back there?’_ Dean thinks frantically, pressed against the locked bathroom door in case Cas got any ideas about following after him. 

Feeling like he’s about to break out into hives from sheer embarrassment, he’s half-tempted to crawl out the bathroom window and make a break for it like he’s jumping ship on a particularly bad date. Unfortunately, it’s not only overkill but also unfeasible seeing as he’s Cas’ ride back to the bunker.

Trying to rein himself back in, he moves to stare at himself in the dinky little mirror in the hopes he’ll find some answers there. His reflection, unsurprisingly, looks about as bewildered and confused as he feels.

He needs to be a special kind of drunk to be that loose-lipped, but here he is, middle of the freakin’ day, stone-cold sober, and telling his best friend he’s cute while they have lunch. In a setting that could be construed by some as a lunch date. _Except it fucking isn’t_. This was just a _normal_ lunch _outing_ until Dean went and shoved his entire damn leg in his mouth.

Humiliation churns in his gut. It’s bad enough that he compared Cas to a cat, he could play that off somehow, but how the hell does he play off calling Cas _adorable_ to _his face_? Sure he’d caught himself thinking it more often lately, (well, it was usually ‘cute’, not ‘adorable’, not that that was any better) but those thoughts had always stayed in his head. 

Until today.

He paces in the small confines of the bathroom, running a hand through his hair agitatedly and scowling at his own reflection as he catches a glimpse of it. This was grade-school levels of embarrassing and not the kind of situation Dean Winchester was ever supposed to be caught up in. 

He gets abruptly jolted back to reality when someone knocks impatiently at the door. Leveling another glare at his reflection, he points an accusatory finger at it. “Keep your shit together, Winchester.”

Dean slips out of the bathroom, barely dodging the squirming teenager waiting outside who shoves past him, and heads up to the counter, keeping his back to their booth. There’s no one manning the counter, but Dean spots the waitress from earlier with another customer, chatting them up as she tops up their coffee. Noticing Dean waiting at the counter, she gives him a nod to let him know she’ll be right with him. 

He fiddles with one of the laminated menus nearby until she’s back, setting the carafe back in the coffee machine before turning to Dean. “You need something else, hon?”

Dean smiles back, a little stiffly. “Just the check.” Something occurs to him and he grimaces a little as he corrects, “Uh, a chicken caesar salad to-go and the check.”

The waitress nods, punching a few keys on the register until it coughs up the bill. She tears it off and sets it in front of him before poking her head into the kitchen to relay Dean’s order. “The salad’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she says, turning back to him and taking the proffered cash. “I’ll bring it over to your table.”

Dean bites back a grimace, nodding instead with a muttered ‘thanks’. 

Cas opens his mouth as Dean settles back into his seat, but Dean cuts him off with a gruff, “We’re not gonna talk about it.” 

He digs into his now-cold burger to underscore the point, feeling Cas’s eyes on him but resolutely ignoring it. He relaxes fractionally when Cas’ gaze eventually slides away from him to people-watch the other diner-goers.

Dean focuses more on chewing his food than he’s ever done in the past, trying to stretch out the time and keep his mouth occupied until the waitress drops off Sam’s lunch at their table. He hastily swallows the last of his burger, plucking a napkin from the dispenser on the table and perfunctorily wiping at his mouth. Dropping it on his now empty plate, he grabs the takeaway bag as he stands up.

“Let’s go,” he says, snagging his jacket from where he’d tossed it on the booth seat and heads for the door, not even bothering to pause and shrug it on. 

The faux leather of the seats squeak under Castiel as he slides out of the booth, grabbing his trenchcoat as he stands up. He glances back up to locate Dean, only to find him already out the door, shrugging into his jacket while digging through his pockets for the car keys. 

Castiel’s brows furrow in confusion, pulling his trenchcoat on as he heads for the door. He notices the waitress giving him a parting smile and wave, and awkwardly returns the gesture.

There’s an uncomfortable silence in the car as they back out of the diner’s parking and onto the main road. Dean blindly turns the radio on to the first half-decent sounding station he can find, eyes intently focused on the road. 

Castiel carefully side-eyes Dean, confused as to the cause of the sudden change in Dean’s mood. Instead of saying anything, he settles himself further into his seat, slanting his glance away to the buildings slipping past as they drive.

The quiet lasts until Dean pulls up at the gas station near the edge of town. “Gotta refill Baby,” he mumbles, not looking at Cas. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he gets out and sets up to get the tank filled.

* * *

Rick’s been working at the Gas & Sip near the edge of town for about five months. Long enough to give him a decent idea of all the different kinds of people that could wander into the place, and how to deal with them. Most of them were locals from town, some were people driving through. And then there’s the guy that walks in in the middle of his completely dead afternoon shift.

Tall, blond, and grumpy wasn’t all that different from the more sullen guys passing through, often tired of being on the road for who-knows-how-many hours. 

Rick glances out the window out of habit, doing a double-take as he catches sight of the shiny, black, beast of a car parked by one of the self-service pumps outside. Not many people drove classic cars like that these days. He’s almost certain he’s seen it around town a couple of times over the past few months though he’d never caught sight of the owner. He can see a guy sitting slouched in the passenger seat, but it’s too far for him to make out any details. In any case, he’s more interested in getting a better look at the driver than at his buddy.

Curious now, he watches the guy trudge through the aisles, glowering at the options on display as he grabs a few chocolate bars and jerky. Rick can feel the brooding frustration rolling off him all the way across their little store. He decides to mentally name him ‘Angry Butch Guy’ because ‘Frustrated Butch Guy’ is too much of a mental mouthful and it’s not like anyone else is gonna know what he calls them in his head anyway.

Since there’s no use pretending he’s busy when he’s not, he picks up the magazine he’d set aside and uses it to hide the curious glances he takes of the guy. Not that there’s much he can make out beyond the plaid lumberjack look and bad mood.

For all that the guy seems to be dragging his feet, he eventually makes his way over to the counter. Rick hastily tries to look as casually uninterested and bored as he’d been when the guy wandered in. 

The effort’s wasted as it turns out since the guy’s either real deep into the broody, sulking thing he’s got going or he just doesn’t care. Once he’s close enough for Rick to see the guy up close, he mentally renames him as ‘Grumpy Male Model’. It’s counterintuitive to being a mental mouthful, not to mention the guy’s as much butch as he is a male model; unfortunately, the useful part of his brain that helps keep him entertained during these shifts has decided to be useless today. So, the new name stays. 

“Need a full tank of gas,” Grumpy Male Model grunts, jabbing a thumb behind him as he sets down his things. Rick nods as he punches it into the register and starts scanning the guy’s purchases, taking surreptitious glances at him all the while. 

He can hear the nagging voice of his conscience that somehow manages to sound like both of his last exes telling him to let sleeping dogs lie. He pointedly ignores them, (they’re not here to judge him now anyway), hesitating for all of a second before curiosity gets the better of him. 

“Everything ok, sir?” he asks as politely as he can manage. He’s nosy and aware of it, but he’s capable of being politely nosy when he’s at work, thank you.

“None of your damn business,” the guy says irritably. Which, ok, ruder than he was expecting. A saner person would probably back down by this point, but there’s only been one other customer in the past two hours and he’s bored, so sue him. He wants to know what’s gotten the guy so pissed off, so he asks what he feels is the most logical possibility for a grumpy, male-model-looking dude. “Girlfriend put you in the dog house?”

That earns him a glare, and a short, “No,” as the guy flicks a glance back at his car. Rick follows his gaze and sees Grumpy Male Model dude’s friend watching the other cars drive by. 

Oh.

Well, his bad. He rattles off the total and starts bagging up the guy’s purchases, figuring he can give one last shot to indulge his curiosity masked under polite sympathy. His expression turns commiserating as he says, “It sucks when the boyfriend puts you in the doghouse.” 

He barely finishes mentally patting himself on the back for bouncing back from the grouchy rebuff when the guy suddenly slams the cash down on the counter. Rick flinches back, barely biting back a shocked yelp. 

“Keep the damn change.” With that, he marches out of the store.

_‘Well,’_ Rick thinks to himself as his heart slows back down, _‘I’m definitely not interested in seeing **him** again.’_

* * *

Dean stews in his irritation for the rest of the afternoon. 

Sam and Cas both clue into Dean’s mood, and aside from some curious side-eyeing from Sam, both of them give him a fair berth. Which is honestly the best for everyone because Dean’s not sure he isn’t going to blow up at someone if they talk to him. 

_‘The hell did the gas station guy get off thinking he and Cas were…’_ Dean can’t even finish the thought, face growing hot as he mentally splutters. 

He wasn’t- 

They weren’t-

_Ugh_. 

It wasn’t even the first time some dumbass thought he and Cas were… more than just buddies. And Dean’s not blind, okay? Let it be known that he’s actually aware of the vibes they sometimes give off even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to be giving them off in the first place. Usually it made sense to blame it on Cas, what with all the staring and standing too close to Dean and all, but they weren’t even in the same damn room this time.

He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. Okay no, that was a lie. He knows why. He’s known since they’d found the angel tablet, when he very nearly admitted to more than he ever planned to. Known since he sat across from Cas in a tiny motel room and felt like the solid ground got yanked out from under his feet as Cas told him he might off himself facing the weight of his mistakes. Known since- there’s no one specific moment in time that it dawned on him that Cas’ presence in his life was irreplaceable, he just knows.

But it doesn’t matter. Cas’ entire ‘Cas-ness’ was just how the dude was. He wasn’t interested in Dean that way.

Much as that _should_ be the end of the matter, his brain’s stuck on it. Telling it not to think about it only makes it think about it more. 

By the time he gives up trying to pretend he’s actually getting anything done it’s almost dinner time. Not bothering to search out Sam or Cas, he quietly slinks out of the storeroom, making his way to the kitchen to throw something together for them to eat. 

He fiddles with the kitchen radio until he finds a classic rock station and turns the volume up high, letting Zeppelin’s tunes wash over him as he cooks.

* * *

“Soup’s on!” Dean yells down the hall.

“Be there in a minute!” Sam shouts back, voice echoing down clearly from the library. Dean’s idly scrolling the internet on his phone when he finally ambles into the kitchen. “Gave up on your record-keeper dreams already, Sammy?”

“I’m making space in the library for some books I found that can be moved up from storage. We should be done in a couple days if we keep at the current pace,” Sam says, filling up his plate from the pot on the stove and grabbing some cutlery before taking a seat at the table. He gives a nod of thanks when Dean sets down two bottles of beer and takes a seat across from him. 

“I don’t understand how we’re related sometimes,” Dean says, shaking his head with an expression of exaggerated disappointment. “Heaven and Hell are closed for Earth-side business, you and Cas are more or less in one piece, and things’ve been quiet on the hunting side. Of all the things we could do during the mini-vacation we got dropped into our laps, you manage to rope us into spring cleaning a storeroom.” 

Sam swallows down his mouthful of spaghetti before he responds, brow raised. “Like what, exactly? I’m not really into celebrating with a Dr. Sexy marathon if that’s what you had in mind.”

Dean scowls. “I don’t need your dumb commentary ruining the viewing experience. I was thinking we could go into town, have a few drinks, maybe meet a few chicks. Y’know, _celebrate_ our win while we actually have the time, for once.”

“And who’d keep an eye on Crowley while we’re out celebrating? Unless you’re planning on inviting him to join us.”

Dean shudders exaggeratedly. 

“The words ‘Crowley’ and ‘drinking buddy’ shouldn’t ever be in the same thought-space. The limey bastard’s been keeping to his room well enough since you insisted on moving him there, he’ll survive one more night. Worst case, we get Kevin to keep an eye on him for a couple of hours.”

“You sure that's a good idea?” Sam asks dryly. “Or that Kevin’ll even agree to it? I don’t know if I’ve even seen him step out of his room at all since we brought Crowley back.”

“Pretty sure he’s the one pilfering the leftovers when no one’s looking, so no need to worry your pretty little head, Sammy. ‘Sides, not like Crowley needs to know that Kev’s still moody enough about him being here to go all hermit-y. We just lean on the fact that he knows the guy isn’t a fan of his, and what he could do if we weren’t holding him back.” Dean shrugs easily. “Should give him some motivation to behave."

Sam snorts, giving a half-shrug-nod. Dean pauses, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth when something occurs to him. “You seen Cas?” 

Cas should’ve normally wandered by long before Sam managed to drag himself away from his books, making borderline petulant inquiries about dinner while Dean’s still cooking as he got hungrier and hungrier.

Sam shrugs. “Not since an hour or so back when I told him I’d be shifting those books to the library.”

Dean frowns, darting a glance at the kitchen entryway. “You think he’s still working?”

“Doubt it,” Sam says. “He probably headed back to his room and forgot about dinner.”

Dean raises a brow and gives him a look that says _‘really?’_

Sam shrugs. “It can happen. But if you’re so worried I’ll text him to remind him.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Dean mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle as Sam shoots Cas a text.

“If he doesn’t show up, the worst that’s likely to happen is that he’ll wander in here a couple of hours later scrounging for cold leftovers.”

“We’re supposed to be teaching him some semblance of a routine, Sammy. Y’know, all that adult human stuff you’d champion at the drop of a hat.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You make me sound like some kind of life coach. Besides, late-night snacking is a pretty human thing at any stage of life; don’t pretend like you don’t do it.”

Dean smirks around a forkful of spaghetti but doesn’t deny it.

Sam sips at his beer thoughtfully. “A night out’s not a bad idea. It’ll be a good new experience for Cas too. Might even be enough to get Kevin to stick his head out of his room.”

“Lemme know if he doesn’t, so I can lock away all the kitchen knives.” Dean huffs. “Armory too, probably.”

“Why are we locking away the kitchen knives and the armory?” Cas asks sleepily, rubbing at his eyes as he wanders into the kitchen.

Dean freezes up, in surprise he tells himself, because he’s still got hunter reflexes and Cas’ silent stalking around somehow manages to pass under the radar. Not because of anything else.

Forcibly making himself relax, he answers a little stiffly. “To keep Kevin from practicing knife-fu on Crowley. And hello to you too, Sleeping Beauty. Glad you finally joined us.”

Cas manages a grunt in response, slumping into the empty seat beside Dean. He yawns widely, reaching a hand up to muffle it halfway through as he stares sleepily at the tabletop. 

Dean mentally unkinks himself at that, rolling his eyes as he gets up to fill up a plate for Cas. Honestly, no one’d think this half-asleep doofus was an angel a week and change ago if they ever saw him now. 

“I fell asleep,” Cas mutters as Dean returns with a full plate for Cas and another beer for himself. 

There’s the beginning of a lecture at the tip of Dean’s tongue about screwing up whatever passes for a sleep schedule with Cas by taking late naps or too long ones, one he’s already given twice now, but he bites it back as he surreptitiously takes the empty seat between his and Sam’s and gets back to his own dinner. 

Sam, who’d been slanting a curious glance in his direction like he’d been expecting the lecture as well, amps up the look when he notices the new seating arrangement. Dean pointedly ignores it. It’s not like he _has_ to sit next to Cas all the time. 

“Thank you,” Cas adds belatedly as he notices the plate in front of him and digs right in. “This is good.”

Dean shrugs it off. “It’s just spaghetti.”

Dinner passes by with Sam and Cas embroiled in a discussion of some book, apparently what he’d been reading before he fell asleep; the most Dean contributes to that is a muttered comment about them starting up a book club which mostly goes ignored. That’s fine with him, not a conversation he wanted to be a part of anyway.

“Well, I’m beat,” Dean says, faking a yawn and a stretch. “Don’t forget to clean up and feed Crowley.”

He rolls his eyes to himself as he says it because this is apparently their life now. The longer he has to actually keep saying shit like this, the more it feels like they’re in a twisted parody of a normal life, one with a dog and the chores related to it. Except here the dog’s a prissy, human-shaped bastard freeloading with them until they can find a way to unload themselves of the responsibility.

Maybe he should convince Sam to reprioritize his to-do list tomorrow.

Just as he’s leaving the kitchen, he hears Sam tell Cas, “I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it; loser has to take Crowley dinner.”

Dean snorts to himself. At least this wasn’t one game he had to worry about losing.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s halfway through making breakfast when he hears quiet footsteps headed towards the kitchen. Sam’s not exactly the quietest guy around, so the most likely option was Cas (much as he and mornings still don't get along) or Kevin (extremely unlikely considering his marathon sulking).

He’s still a tiny bit antsy at having to deal with Cas one-on-one but after a mostly decent night’s sleep, he can acknowledge that he might’ve been overreacting yesterday, just a bit. Even if his issues involved Cas, it wasn’t like Cas deserves to be getting the brunt of Dean’s mood swings. He just needs to shove it all down and move on, maybe hook up with someone and get it out of his system.

And what better way to do that than going out for drinks later tonight?

He mentally runs through his plan of action as he pokes at the pancake before expertly flipping it. Getting the feeling he’s being watched, he glances over his shoulder only to find Crowley watching him with a sardonic little smile.

“You’d make a promising line cook in a diner yet,” he tells Dean as he makes his way into the kitchen.

Much as he’s relieved at it not being Cas, Crowley isn’t exactly a better option. He tightens the belt of his robe self-consciously as he half-turns to face him. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Good morning to you too,” Crowley replies easily, unphased. He’s similarly dressed-down in some old Men of Letters’ clothes Sam had scrounged up for him, sans the dead-guy robe, looking just as comfortable in it as he did in a three-piece suit. “A lack of caffeine in your system really does make a difference to your manners, doesn’t it?”

Dean side-eyes him with a flat look.

Crowley shrugs, arms half-raised in an aborted gesture of surrender. “Seeing as you own some responsibility for my current state, I thought to see about breakfast.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He’s heard that line too many times to count already. _Sam’s_ the one who did the damn spell.

“You’ll get your damn toast soon enough. Not like it’s going anywhere.”

“Excuse me if I’d like to have something different once in a while,” Crowley replies drolly.

Dean frowns. “ _You’re_ the one who asked for it in the first place.”

“Yes, as an alternative to the poor man’s cereal option you gave me, who wouldn’t? I didn’t expect that to be the only thing available in the morning ever since. Some variety wouldn’t kill you.”

Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose and doesn’t respond, turning back to the pans in front of him. Just because Crowley isn’t a demon-shaped threat anymore, doesn’t mean he isn’t annoying, first thing in the morning or otherwise. 

“If it’s quid pro quo you’re after, I make a mean coffee.”

He glances over his shoulder in confusion. “Aren’t you guys prissy tea drinkers?”

“There’s more to our tastes than tea and toast,” Crowley replies sarcastically. “We sometimes have scones.”

It’s too early in the day to be dealing with this. Not that there’s ever really a good time to be dealing with Crowley. “You’ll go back after you get breakfast?” Dean asks tiredly.

“On the queen’s honor,” Crowley replies.

“What’s that got to do with yours?” Dean asks, brows raised.

Crowley sighs a little, rolling his eyes. “I’ve followed your rules quite well so far. Trust that I’ll continue keeping to it for a little longer.”

Dean’s lips purse, slanting into a frown, before relenting with a sigh. “Fine, whatever.” He waves a hand behind him. “Coffee maker’s over there, mugs are on the shelf under the island.”

Sam walks into the kitchen sometime later muffling a yawn. He pauses when he catches sight of Crowley and sighs. “Crowley.”

“Moose,” Crowley replies pleasantly.

Dean half-shoves a plate of pancakes at Crowley before they decide to stand around talking or argue or whatever. Accepting it without comment, Crowley takes his sweet time grabbing the nearby bottle of syrup and pouring a generous helping on his breakfast. He raises his mug of coffee in a mock-salute at the brothers. “Have a good morning, boys.”

Dean bites back a sigh, taking a sip of his coffee as he watches him brush past Sam and out the kitchen. He frowns. The bastard made a pretty decent cup of coffee after all.

“You’re allowing him to wander around the bunker now?” Sam asks, grabbing his mug and getting some coffee for himself.

“Apparently he got bored,” Dean tells him sarcastically with a shrug, not really in the mood to get into it.

He lets Sam get started on breakfast before trying to broach the subject of tonight’s game plan. “So… about that ‘night out’ thing,” Dean starts, pouring pancake batter into the pan.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go today.”

Sam pauses, knife halfway through a pancake. “Today?”

“Is there an echo in here? Yes, today. Not like we’ve got anything urgent, and don’t you try feeding me any nonsense about storeroom work being ‘urgent’.”

Sam stares at him for a moment before relenting with a shrug and half-nod of agreement and gets back to eating breakfast.

Cas sleeps in and misses breakfast, which is a surprise to no one at all. Sam volunteers to wash up the breakfast dishes and shoos Dean away to get started on work. Dean would _beg_ whoever’s listening for a case, just a salt-and-burn one somewhere a couple hours drive from here, so he didn’t have to keep doing what’s essentially a nerdy hunter’s version of glorified paperwork. He wasn’t fully on board for the Men of Letters legacy crap like Sam so eagerly was, he just wants to enjoy having a home base and a room of his own.

He gets a refill of coffee before he leaves, setting aside a covered plate of the remaining pancakes alongside a bottle of the strawberry syrup Cas likes on the island for him to find for whenever he decides to wander in. He wasn’t feeling guilty. Nope. He'd just made extra like a decent person would do.

* * *

There’s a lethargic feeling to the afternoon as they finish off lunch. So much so that Sam and Cas don’t even put up a token argument when Dean insists on taking a break before getting back to work. Not that he really expected them to, Sam’s still recovering his stamina no matter what lines he tries to feed Dean, and the clean-up was eating into the naps Cas liked taking. He’d probably be useless afterwards, but hey, that was going to be Sam’s problem, not Dean’s.

Gathering up the dirty dishes, Dean heads back to the kitchen to start washing up. His mind wanders as he works, idly considering the logistics of setting up a rec room in one of the myriad of unused rooms they have available to them. The kitchen’s Dean’s favorite place in the bunker so far, for obvious reasons, but it’s not really a place to kick back and relax. This place was their home now, and it’s sizable enough that they can afford to have a living room _somewhere_.

Wiping his hands dry, he grabs a beer from the fridge and heads for the library, figuring he’ll try and find something worth reading to kill some time. 

He freezes halfway up the steps when he catches sight of Cas at one of the tables, cheek propped up on an open palm, head tilted down to read a thick, old tome with yellowing pages propped open in front of him.

It’s starting to become a familiar sight now, even if Dean’s staring at the guy from halfway across the room in some kind of weird role reversal of the old days instead of sitting across from him.

It’s not exactly a habit per se, given that it’s only happened a few times since Cas’ unexpected return, but it’s got the makings of one.

Usually it was Cas who’d find Dean brooding there when he wasn’t hovering over Sam instead of the other way around. Not that Cas brooded, no. He just had his nose stuck in a book or his phone most of the time. Dean’s been wondering if it’s time to suggest a hobby, even though it feels kind of weird to.

He’s still not entirely adjusted to the Cas-is-human thing.

The last he’d expected to see of Cas was at the bar they’d been scoping out the cupid for before he’d flown off in search of Metatron. He’s still not sure of the specifics on why Cas was there slumming it with them instead of up in Heaven with his siblings.

The few times they’d managed to find themselves across from each other in the library usually ended up with them stuck in a semi-awkward silence limbo that Dean’s got no clue how to break. The ghost of their last argument still seemed to hang between them; back when he’d been faced with the possibility of Cas leaving them for good, he’d decided it wasn’t worth staying mad over. He’s just… never gotten around to saying as much to Cas.

Eventually, by unspoken agreement, they’d shoved it under the metaphorical rug and moved on. 

Things changed once Sam got better. 

Unlike Dean, Sam didn’t have any lingering hangups with Cas or find any need to hide how happy he was that Cas was there with them. They’d taken to watching documentaries together in Sam’s room during his enforced bed rest, Sam peppering Cas with questions whenever he pointed out an inaccuracy or went off on some tangent. Once Dean could trust him to be mobile on his own and not fall under his own weight, that shifted into nerdy discussions in the library that went completely over Dean’s head. 

Dean’s essentially been thoroughly swapped out by his little brother for company. 

He’s _not_ jealous about that, much. It’s not like he could match Sam in the brainy nerd-speak department that they both go off on.

Dean stares at Cas quietly for a long moment, lips pursed.

He’d pasted on a smile and forced himself into acting normal today while they worked, teaming up with Sam this time to make sure he wasn’t pushing himself. Sam’s been stubborn about taking breaks, and Dean’s not about to let his bull-headed pride take him down after everything else. 

Putting some space between him and Cas was a side-benefit. Cas hadn’t said anything to the change, hadn’t really said much the entire morning now that he thinks about it.

Dean almost feels a little guilty.

Ever since Cas became human, the guy seems almost starved for company. He’d taken over keeping an eye on Kevin and Crowley, even gently shoehorning himself into helping with Sam. Exasperated and a little frayed, Dean let him.

He didn’t get much of a chance to brood over it since Cas would inevitably find him, hesitantly gravitating to Dean whenever he thought he could get away with it. 

Dean didn’t think much about it at first; Cas likes Dean more than he likes pretty much anyone else aside from Sam, and he’s never been all that subtle about it. But actually having him around all the time started to put his actions into a different light. Like he was trying to make up for something he’d lost, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what that was.

Readjusting his grip on the sweating beer bottle in his hand, he wanders closer. It’s only when he’s a couple of feet away that he realizes that Cas is asleep. Straight up conked out over a book, like a sleeping version of the Thinker statue.

Maybe he’d been wrong in his earlier assessment. Maybe Cas was just tired.

Dean fudges over whether or not to leave him be, then decides he’ll park himself a little further away. He winces as the chair screeches against the floor as he pulls it out even though he’d been trying to be quiet.

Of course, the noise wakes Cas up, his face slipping off his palm and jolting back up in sleepy confusion.

“What- Dean?”

“Hey,” Dean says, grimacing. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Mmm,” Cas grunts, rubbing at his eyes. Dean catches the smudge of dark circles under his eyes as his hand falls away.

“Your bed’s bound to be a better napping place than the library,” Dean jokes, taking a long sip of his beer as he pulls one of the books from the nearby stack and opening it. It’s a book on rare herbs and their magical and non-magical uses. Dean bites back a sigh; they really needed to get some decent fiction books in here.

He leans back, fiddling with the beer bottle label as he darts a glance in Cas’ direction. He looks more awake now if still a little tired as he goes back to his reading. Sensing Dean’s gaze, Cas looks up and meets his eyes, brow raised in silent question.

Caught out, Dean shrugs.

“What’re you reading?” He leans closer, tilting his head to see if he could make out what’s on the page a bit better. None of it looked like actual words he could recognize.

Cas follows his gaze, glancing down at it. “It’s in Dutch,” he says, having correctly assumed where Dean’s thoughts had gone. “And I suppose you could call it ‘The American Buccaneers’ though the literal translation of its name is more like ‘The American Sea Robbers’. It’s a biography and history of pirates of the seventeenth century by a Dutch buccaneer who was active at that time.”

Dean raises a brow. “And you can read that?”

Cas shrugs agreeably.

“I _do_ know most of the living languages still in use today, as well as a fair number of dead ones.” Something seems to occur to Cas and his expression grows more solemn as he stares down at the book. “I’m unsure how long that will last. Human brains don’t possess the capacity for this much knowledge.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. This was starting to veer into the kind of deeper conversation territory that they‘ve been studiously avoiding.

He nods at the book. “Doubt Benny’s in there, huh.”

Cas’ brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a long pull of his beer before he answers.

“Benny and his nest used to haunt the seas down south for their hunts before they Shanghai’d his ass to Purgatory.” He glances away then, feeling an unsurprising mix of guilt and regret as he thought of the last time they’d been on decent terms. “They ran a tight operation until we kiboshed it.”

“You and Benny remained… ‘friends’ after Purgatory?” Cas asks, air quotes and all, expression uncertain and something edging on a little displeased. Cas’d never been a big fan of the guy, even till the end, so that’s not all that surprising. It still strikes a nerve in Dean.

“I-” Dean pauses. He’d been about to brush it off, play it as some kind of last favor thing for helping get his ass out of Purgatory, but the words don’t seem to want to come out of his mouth. He clears his throat roughly and tries again. 

“Guess you could call it that,” he says gruffly. A little defensively, he adds, “It’s not a big deal.”

Cas frowns, seeming confused as he says, “Why not?”

_‘Because it’s not,’_ Dean thinks, annoyed, but what comes out instead is “Because he’s back in Purgatory. So, non-issue.”

Surprise flickers across Cas’ expression. He looks like he’s gearing up to poke further, but something in Dean’s expression seems to filter through enough to warn him off. 

Cas glances away, gaze landing on the open book in front of him. He cocks his head slightly. When he speaks, it’s slow and thoughtful. “Vampire… pirates.”

“Vampirates,” Dean corrects, a little relieved. It was _still_ an awesome name that everyone needed to be using.

Cas frowns in confusion before the expression clears into something a mix of surprised and amused. “That’s clever.”

“It’s obvious is what it is,” Dean retorts, preening internally. Cas still didn’t get most jokes, or, if he did, it was in a different angle (usually philosophical in ways Dean just doesn’t get) than what anyone else was seeing. So yeah, Dean’s going to take whatever wins he gets here.

“Listen, Sammy and I were talking earlier. We’re thinking of going out for drinks later tonight now that everything’s about as okay as it can get. Celebrate, y’know?”

Cas gives a slow nod in understanding. “Of course,” he says, shoulders slumping slightly. “I hope you and Sam have fun. I’ll ‘hold the house down’.”

Dean’s torn between laughing at the screw-up and groaning at Cas missing the point, as usual. A groan of resigned amusement wins out which he muffles with the hand he rubs over his mouth. “It’s ‘hold down the fort’. And you’re included, dumbass. Kevin too, if we can pry him out of his room.”

“Oh,” Cas says slowly, blinking once, then twice, as if he isn’t entirely sure he’s heard correctly. His mouth twitches in something of a half-smile. “Alright.” 

* * *

With Sam and Cas still elbow deep in the archive shelves and a promise to finish up soon, it’s up to Dean to check on their newly retired, brooding prophet and see if he can’t get him out without needing to use a shovel.

He pounds his fist twice against Kevin’s closed door. “You still alive?” 

When there’s no response, Dean pounds the door again and pitches his voice louder. “C’mon kid, I know you’re in there.”

“What do you care?” Kevin barks, voice sounding distant enough like he’s yelling at Dean from across the room.

“You done sulking?” Dean asks.

The reply comes immediately this time. “You stopped housing that scheming, murderous asshole yet?” 

Dean rolls his eyes.

“You wanna get cheered up a bit or you want the truth?”

“They can’t both be the same thing?” Kevin asks sarcastically.

“How’s a night out drinking sound?”

It takes a few moments for Kevin to respond. “Not the worst idea ever. You realize I’m still technically underage, right?”

Dean shrugs, not that Kevin can see it. “That’s what the false IDs are for. C’mon, get a little fresh air, see some other human faces besides your own reflection. You might even have fun.”

It takes a few moments, but then the door opens a crack, enough for Kevin to eye Dean narrowly. The light from the hall plays along his tired, mistrustful expression. “What about Crowley?”

“Staying here, obviously. Why does everyone think I’d _want_ to have drinks with the guy? Come on,” Dean cajoles, “I owe you a round or two for all the work you did with the tablets.”

“Fine,” Kevin says, still half-scowling. “When’re we going?”

Dean takes a quick glance at his watch. “Half an hour. Enough time for you to wash up, and uh, maybe consider a shave, Kev.”

Kevin rolls his eyes and gives a disgusted noise that Dean takes as agreement.

* * *

It’s not quite happy hour yet when they reach Donnie’s, so the bar’s not all that busy. They split up, Dean off to order the first round while Sam, Cas, and Kevin head off to snag them an empty table.

“No shop talk,” Dean says loudly as he sets the drinks down, interrupting whatever Sam was saying. “We’re supposed to be having _fun_ , Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes and gives Cas a _‘what can you do’_ look. Dean’s not sure if he actually complies because they start talking about something that sounds equally nerdy to what he’d interrupted. Cas listens intently, chiming in with his own comments every so often, leaving Dean and Kevin to drink in peaceful silence.

Eventually, Dean notices how Cas’ gaze keeps darting towards a couple of guys playing a boisterous round of pool. Sam notices the same thing not long after. Maybe he’s not used to the trash-talking or he’s not familiar with the game; whichever it is, Dean somehow finds himself standing across a pool table from Cas and teaching him how to play. 

Dean’s a pro at the game, and the better player between him and his brother, so of course he’s the obvious choice. He’s still not entirely clear on how it ended up being _him_ roped into teaching Cas when he and Sam had become the bunker’s new buddy duo. 

Sam’s to blame somehow, he’s sure of it; he’s been giving Dean looks lately even if he hasn’t uttered a peep about whatever’s shaking around in his big head. The fucker even cheerfully volunteers to play a round against Cas once Dean’s done showing him the ropes.

Uncomfortably aware of Sam watching them, Dean’s careful not to stand too close to Cas as he explains how the game’s played. He gets the gist of it pretty quickly but keeps holding onto the cue like he’s planning to hit someone with it. 

“No, Cas, you gotta-” Dean moves to correct him for what must be the fourth or fifth time and ends up getting hit in the gut with the butt-end of the cue as Cas gears up to take a shot. 

He grunts in surprise at the impact, which distracts Cas and sends his shot wild, sinking the cue ball instead of whatever he’d been aiming at. 

Dean can distantly hear Sam spluttering a laugh into his beer and hopes he manages to choke on it.

Even though Dean tries to go easy on him, Cas inevitably loses the second practice match as well, scowling at the pool table like it’s at fault somehow as he drains the dregs of his beer. Dean decides it’s only fair as a gracious winner to ease the sting a bit by buying him another drink.

He lets Cas choose this time instead of just ordering another beer, and of course, the guy ends up going for some frou-frou sounding concoction. They wait there in comfortable silence while the bartender prepares his drink, the sounds of some vaguely familiar top one-hundred’s song washing over them from across the bar. Cas squints at the bottles behind the counter curiously, trying to make out the labels. Dean surreptitiously watches him and the play of neon lights on his face cast by the signs on the corner wall. Not for the first time, Dean thinks it’s unfair how good looking he is.

Cas mutters a ‘thank you’ to the bartender when his drink arrives, a large, bright, eyesore of a thing. He makes a quiet, satisfied hum as he sips at it, licking his lips as he sets it down, chasing down the lingering sweetness of the drink. The sight distracts Dean enough that he forgets to rib Cas about his taste in drinks.

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to hit Cas, and their next round of pool is punctuated by his increasingly erratic shots. He glances from his half-empty glass to Dean’s fourth round of beer like he’s got a theory that doesn’t quite make sense yet.

“How are you not inebriated yet?” He asks sulkily and with the slightest bit of slurring, leaning heavily against the pool table. Dean’s almost certain he imagines the slight redness to his cheeks in the dim light of the bar.

He snorts at the question. He’d learned long ago not to mess with ladies’ drinks after one of the few date nights he’d had with Lisa. She’d dared him into trying her drink when she’d noticed the derisive look he’d given it. It’d been strong enough that the taste had lingered all night, even after a couple of rounds of beer. Featherweight that human Cas apparently is, he’d probably be knocked on his ass if he tried a Long Island Iced Tea. No telling what the alcohol content in his current drink was, but it’s a fair bet that it and the sugariness of it are high.

“Experience,” he says. “Lisa made sure I knew that she’d match me drink for drink and win if I tried to be uppity about the bright eyesores she called drinks.” Blinking in surprise at his own words, he hastily corrects himself. “I mean- your tolerance is worth shit compared to mine. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Cas cocks his head. “You and Lisa competed in drinking contests against each other?”

Dean grimaces, shaking his head stiffly. 

“She didn’t let me go that far in being an idiot on the few dates we had, couldn’t go back home to Ben completely sloshed.”

He coughs a little, clearing his throat. “Just made me try her drinks a couple times to teach me not to try and say shit about them. They were, uh,” Dean grimaces again, “strong, I guess.”

Shifting awkwardly against the urge to make a break for it, Dean indicates the pool table. “We done here?”

He doesn't wait for a response before heading back to their table. Sam could tag in and replace Dean for the round he'd promised.

* * *

Having conceded to being too poorly coordinated while ‘buzzed’ - “I’m not drunk,” Cas had insisted huffily - to have any hope of winning a round of pool, Cas somehow manages to convince Sam into a round of darts instead. Dean’s pretty sure that’s gonna end in disaster so he tries his best not to pay too much attention to them.

He’s in the middle of a mostly incoherent argument-slash-debate with Kevin when he hears a slightly loud and very familiar voice cut through the music. “Are you propositioning me?”

Dean’s head whips around fast enough that he’s definitely going to be feeling it tomorrow. That’s a problem for future him though since his brain and eyes are currently zeroed in on the twink very much in Cas’ personal space. 

Cas is standing beside the dartboard, darts in hand with the twink standing far too close to him to be considered polite, leaning against the wall in what he probably thought was an alluring manner. Sam’s nowhere in sight.

Dean’s out of his seat and halfway across the bar before he even realizes it. 

“This guy bothering you, Cas?” he asks, almost on top of Cas with how close he’s standing. Cas doesn’t seem particularly surprised by Dean’s sudden appearance, only briefly glancing at Dean.

“We were just talking.”

Undeterred, the twink smirks flirtily at Cas. “We can do more than that, handsome.”

“Buzz off,” Dean growls.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” the twink says dismissively. “C’mon, ditch this buzzkill and have a little fun with me.”

Cas frowns. “What kind of fun?”

The twink grins. “The sexy kind.”

Dean sees red. Completely ignorant to the impending explosion of Dean’s powder-keg brain, Cas responds, “I’m too old for you.” Like that was the only reason to turn him down.

“Definitely not a problem.”

“Oh, it _is_ ,” Dean says gruffly, grabbing Cas’ arm. “Let’s go.”

Cas resists Dean’s pulling, but he’s no longer angel-levels of immovable and drunk enough that he ends up stumbling back into Dean at the tug. Dean barely registers the familiar whiff of his shampoo that wafts off Cas mixed with the cigarette smoke scent permeating the bar before he shrugs Dean’s grip off with an annoyed, “I can walk just fine on my own, Dean.”

The twink glances skeptically between them with a narrow-eyed look, one corner of his mouth pulled down into a frown. “You two together?”

Dean’s drunk brain stalls at the question. Cas on the other hand just frowns and says “Yes.”

Like it’s obvious. Dean’s brain has officially flat-lined.

The twink huffs. 

“Could’ve just said so in the first place.” He purses his lips, glancing once at Dean before pasting a smile as meets Cas’ eyes. “If you ever wanna trade up,” he nods in the direction of the bar, “you know where to find me.”

He’s barely wandered off before Sam returns. Catching sight of Dean’s poleaxed expression, he glances between him and Cas. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Dean mutters before stalking back to their table.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean drags himself to the kitchen, unsurprisingly empty at, he squints against the light of his phone to check the time, a little after seven. Not really in the mood to eat much, he manages to force down some toast, washing it down with scalding hot coffee.

Ignoring the hangover headache he’s got as best as he can, he tries to patch together what did and did not happen last night. It’s a shitty attempt on its own, _but_ there was a mostly sober source who could help clear things up. 

Sam hadn’t drunk as much last night, stopping after the second beer and switching to water so he could drive them home after, which means he wanders into the kitchen a little while later mostly awake and clear-headed instead of hungover.

Cas, lightweight that he was, was going to be suffering his first human hangover once he woke up, but chances were fair it wasn’t going to be anytime soon. Dean never thought he’d have a reason to be grateful for Cas’ budding general hatred of mornings, but he finds one now.

Sam gets all of a few moments to root around in the cupboard for his healthy, tasteless excuse for cereal before Dean rounds on him.

“Something’s wrong, Sammy.”

Setting down his cereal box, Sam turns to Dean with a frown. “Dean, it’s barely past seven-thirty in the morning. Hangovers aren’t new to you, or an actual problem.”

Dean scowls. “Not that, dumbass. A _real_ problem.”

Sam’s expression turns skeptical. He stares at Dean for a long moment, then sighs. “Alright, I’ll bite: what is it?”

Dean hesitates then. He needs his brother in on this, but he can’t think of a way to explain it that doesn’t make him sound like he’s lost his marbles. Sam stares at him expectantly, brow raised.

“You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

“I’ll wait until you actually tell me what’s wrong before I decide anything.” 

Well, time to bite the bullet.

“I can’t stop telling the truth,” Dean says, running his hand through his hair agitatedly. Sam’s giving him a look like he’s gone insane, so this is going like he’d expected it to so far. Maybe he has, or maybe this is just some weird new strain of hangover-influenced nightmare which is eerily, uncomfortably realistic.

“Is this some dumb new prank you’re trying to pull, Dean? You’re one of the best liars I know.”

Dean scowls, temper fraying. “Would I joke about a fucking thing like this?!”

Sam crosses his arms in front of his chest, patient but skeptical even faced with Dean’s frustration. “Say a lie.” 

“My name’s Donnie Scofield, I’m a mechanic from Wichita and…” he trails off. Sam’s giving him Judgmental Bitch Face #4, the _‘I am not buying your shit’_ look. Something’s not adding up, and he feels like a dunce who’s playing to the wrong script.

“I swear Sammy, I’m not kidding. Something’s been off the last few days. You know I don’t say half the shit that goes through my head but it’s like I can’t help myself lately.”

Sam raises a brow at the admission, though the skeptical look still remains. “Like what?” 

Dean opens his mouth, ready to spout off the half-dozen times his loose tongue got ahead of him just last night, then pauses. Most of the stuff that comes to mind were things that happened with Cas and he feels like breaking out into hives at the thought of actually having to repeat even one of those to Sam. 

“Just take my damn word for it, Sammy.”

The second eyebrow rises up to join the first. "Not that I don't appreciate how dedicated you are at trying to get out of helping clean up the storeroom, which I’m assuming is what you’re trying to do here, but I need _some_ proof before I actually believe you, Dean."

“I’m not-” Dean splutters. Sam crosses his arms, giving him an expectant look. Dean quickly casts around through his beer-goggled memory of last night for an example that he wouldn’t need to elaborate on but got his point across.

“Fine. You want proof? I was ribbing Cas last night about his frou-frou drink choices and how he’s such a lightweight and-,” Dean pauses, jaw working, “I dunno what happened, but I ended up saying some stuff about when Lisa and I were together.”

Sam’s eyebrows wing up at the admission, arms falling slack in surprise.

Dean gives Sam a challenging look, chin raised like he’s expecting to not be believed.

“It ain’t even the first time it’s happened,” _‘or only’_ was strongly implied, his tone of voice insinuating that Sam wasn’t about to be privy to any more examples. Sam couldn’t recall being part of any awkwardly truthful conversations with Dean, so either he was having them with complete strangers or mostly just Cas.

He considers Dean thoughtfully. “How long has this been going on?”

“About two days. Thought I was imagining it at first, ‘s why I didn’t bother telling you about it before.”

"Has this been happening with anyone else?"

Dean pauses, thinking back over his interactions from the past day or two till now. "I- no."

"So it's only happening with Cas?" Sam's brows furrow. "That's weirdly specific."

Whatever thought Dean's reached at with Sam's statement has him making a face like someone had forced him to suck on a lemon.

"You haven't noticed anything weird while talking with Cas recently?" Dean asks suspiciously.

Sam shrugs. “Don’t think so. Then again, it’s not like Cas and I have issues talking about things.”

The flat, withering look Dean gives him at that could peel paint.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You asked. Wait, is this why you’ve been acting weird?”

“You’re the one acting weird,” Dean retorts defensively. 

Sam gives him an unimpressed look before huffing a short breath through his nose. “Let’s say I believe you. What I’m getting from all this is that you can lie, but not to Cas.”

“Yes, Captain Obvious, and?”

“Well,” Sam frowns thoughtfully. “It’s _Cas_ we’re talking about here. It’s not like he hexed you or cast a spell on you or anything.” His eyes light up as an idea occurs to him. “Wait, what if it _is_ a spell?”

“I’m not following.”

“You’re not exactly careful handling artifacts, Dean. Maybe you set something off.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. His lips press into a thin line, looking annoyed.

Sam sighs the long-suffering sigh of a younger brother, familiar with exactly what his older brother is capable of. “And _this_ is why I tell you to be careful.” 

Dean straightens up, annoyance blending with defensiveness as he squares off against his brother. “Hold up, how is this only _my_ fault? If it’s got something to do with Cas, maybe _he_ set something off, huh? Ever thought of that?”

“Well,” Sam starts, then falters, brows pinching together. He’d bet good money that Cas was liable to be more careful than Dean as a given, _but,_ with neither of them sure of what got set off or how it works, it’d be stupid to disregard the possibility, no matter how slim. 

“It’s... possible I guess,” he concedes, rolling his eyes at the smug look on Dean’s face. He shakes his head with a huff. “We’ll need to find the rest of the files they kept of the storeroom items, see if anything matches the effects you’ve described. You can-”

“No,” Dean interrupts.

“No?” Sam repeats, confused. “What, you’ve got a better idea or something?”

Dean shrugs. “Or something. Got lots of things that need doing round here, Sammy.”

“Name one.”

Dean smirks. “Haven’t really had some ‘alone time’ in a while and I got this new online subscription for-”

Sam raises his hands up to cut him off. “Okay, okay I get it. Just stop.”

Even with his own ass in the crosshairs, Dean still jumps away from research like he’s allergic. He’s not sure he’s even surprised anymore.

“I’ll get Cas to help pull any Men of Letters records he can find and…” Catching Dean’s expression, he trails off. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says quickly. “You do what you gotta do, Sammy. Just don’t tell Cas about this.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Don’t tell Cas about something that involves the both of you.”

“Yup.”

“You gonna tell me why?”

“Nope.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. There’s miles of buried _something_ Dean’s clearly trying to avoid getting unearthed, and Sam’s got a pretty decent idea of what.

“Fine,” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hide from Cas, do whatever. Lemme have some breakfast first, then I’ll try to figure out what’s causing this crap.”

“You’re the best, Sammy.” Dean grins, slapping Sam roughly on the shoulder.

* * *

Sam barely notices Cas when he wanders into the storeroom, focused as he is on the file in front of him, managing a grunt in response when Cas greets him as he walks past. 

He loses the better part of an hour or two carefully scrutinizing the records they’d found so far. Aside from one or two magically imbued objects documented in surprising detail, many of the others barely had a line or two explaining anything beyond when it had been acquired.

He’s in the middle of rifling through the shelves, skimming for any book or file with the Men of Letters insignia in the hopes of finding more records when Cas passes by, arms full of books and the odd box or two. He pauses, staring at Sam curiously. “You seem frustrated.”

Focus broken, Sam blinks in surprise, glancing over his shoulder at Cas. “You don’t look so great either. How’s the hangover treating you?”

“Not well,” Cas replies irritably. “The headache is bad enough, but the underlying nausea is bothersome. How do you deal with it?”

Sam coughs quietly, clearing his throat to get rid of the uncomfortable, scratchy feeling and takes a moment to think it over. He clears his throat again when the feeling persists, and says, “I’m not much of a fan of hangovers either, so I don’t usually drink much. Water usually helps with getting the headache to go down a bit. Can’t really help with the nausea though; people have different things that work for them, so I can’t really suggest anything.”

Cas nods thoughtfully before heading to Sam’s worktable and carefully depositing the items in his arms. Without even a backward glance at Sam, he wanders off in the direction of the exit.

Sam watches him go curiously, then shrugs and gets back to work. He’s pretty sure Dean’s hiding out in his room, so there’s no chance of Cas running into him. Besides, he hadn’t made any promises to chain Cas down to the storeroom.

Cas wanders back in a short while later, looking a little less like a worn doormat, two bottles of water in hand. He hands one to Sam. 

“Most of the solutions I found online agreed with your suggestion to stay hydrated. The pain medication also helps.” At Sam’s curiously amused look, he adds assuringly, “It was mild.”

“Well,” Sam says with a half-smile, “I’m not hungover, but thanks for the water, I guess.”

“It’s important to stay hydrated regardless.”

Sam inclines his head in agreement. Figuring the conversation was over, he turns back to the shelf in front of him, pulling out a thick book and brushing off the thin layer of dust with a grimace.

Cas however, doesn’t go anywhere. Sam glances back up to find Cas watching him.

“Was there something else you wanted to talk about?” Sam asks, confused. 

“You seemed frustrated earlier,” Cas repeats. “Would you like some help?”

“Ah, yeah,” Sam says with a bit of surprise. 

“What do you need?”

“More records,” Sam replies immediately with a wry half-smile. “Ones that actually have useful details in them.”

He nods in the direction of his workspace. 

“I’ve been making my own records as we go, figuring I’d fill it in from whatever indexes or stuff we manage to find.” Sam shrugs. “Thought I’d switch gears today and try having the information first instead, seeing as most of the stuff we’ve found hasn’t even been mentioned.”

Cas nods in understanding, frowning slightly. “I can help you look for the relevant files. Dean should be able to manage sorting on his own, for now.” He blinks as something occurs to him. “I haven’t seen him today.”

Sam’s lips purse as he looks away from Cas. “He has some things he needed to take care of, so it’s just the two of us.”

Cas’ brows furrow in confusion but he doesn’t comment.

Sam sighs and tries to reroute the conversation back to the matter at hand. Dean doesn’t need to be a part of this conversation when he’s not even here to lend a hand. “You start searching from where you’ve been clearing up, and I’ll keep working on this side.”

It takes most of the morning for them to gather together all the documents they can find related to storeroom records. He sends Cas back to his sorting tasks after with some regret, settling down to read through the documents.

On a whim, he decides to keep an eye out for any mentions of Veritas. It’s a reach, but it’s not like they’ve got anything else to go on.

* * *

Sam double-checks his watch as he heads in the direction of Dean’s room; it was getting close to dinner time and he’d rather know now instead of later if Dean was going to play a one-sided hide and seek game with Cas for the rest of the day.

He raps his knuckles against the door. “Dean?”

No response. Sam knocks harder.

“It’s Sam,” he says, a little exasperated. Still no response. He huffs quietly to himself and tries the handle, blinking in surprise when it opens into a dark and obviously empty room. 

He pokes his head into the shower room next, but it’s similarly empty. Frowning, he pulls out his phone as he wanders down to the library, pulling up his contacts in search of Dean’s number when the smell of something mouthwateringly delicious reaches him.

His stomach rumbles quietly. Lunch felt like forever ago.

He pockets his phone and follows the smell to the kitchen, pausing at the entryway. Dean doesn’t notice him, busy wrestling with a tin of flour.

“You want some help with that?” Sam says after a few seconds of watching Dean’s losing fight with the flour tin.

Dean startles in surprise, badly enough that he loses his grip on the tin he’d been trying to open. It lands solidly on his foot and then onto the floor with a dull _thunk_ , lid finally coming free with a clatter as it spilled its contents across the floor.

“Shit. _Shit!_ Freakin’ warn a man, Sammy,” Dean complains, leaning back and wincing at the throbbing in his foot. He flexes it to check if anything was damaged, wincing at the resulting twinge of pain. Nothing felt broken.

Sam steps down into the kitchen, eyeing the brownies cooling on top of the stove, before sliding over to the ingredients corralled together on one corner of the island, to the dirty dishes and utensils in the sink.

Dean, noticing the look, scowls. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sam replies innocently.

Dean rolls his eyes, setting the half-empty flour tin back on the counter and grabbing the small dustpan and brush stowed away beneath the sink to clean up the spilled flour. “Figured this shit out yet?”

Sam shrugs, leaning back against the dining table and crossing his arms. “I think we’ve found all the records for the stuff in that room, but it’ll take some time to comb through it.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgment. Depositing the spilled flour into the trash, he carelessly drops the dustpan aside, brushing his hands off on his jeans. 

Sam idly taps his fingers against his forearm as he watches him.

Catching him staring, Dean gives him a look. “Got something you wanna share with the class?”

Sam shrugs. “Just thinking. There’s nothing about cursed objects that compel people to tell the truth in whatever I’ve gone through so far, so I’m working backwards with what we _do_ have. See if maybe anything we had matched with stuff that might be associated with truth deities.”

Dean blinks. “What, like that Veritas bitch we faced before?”

Sam inclines his head in a half-nod. “That’s what I was texting you about earlier. It’s a bit of a reach since there’s not a lot of lore on it out there, but the hand mirror you guys found _could_ be hers. It got me thinking; Veritas isn’t the only truth goddess around. We’ve got some items in the storeroom that match up with a similar kind of god or goddess from other pantheons. The mirror’s probably our best bet, but, assuming that the Men of Letters had cursed objects they didn’t know were cursed, there’s a chance it’s a feather or a signet ring.”

Dean stares at him blankly. 

“Any of those ring a bell?”

Dean shrugs. “Kinda? But what’s the use askin’ me? Not like I’d know which one it is just cuz you give me options.”

Sam huffs, grabbing up his mug and heading for the coffee machine. “You were pestering me for an update not even an hour ago. Figured I’d do that and take a break to get some coffee. Everything I read’s just blurring together at this point.”

There’s barely enough coffee in the carafe for one mug’s worth and it’s just a few steps above lukewarm, but he’ll take the caffeine however he can get it.

“And here I thought you liked having opportunities to be a nerd.”

Sam takes a sip of his coffee, side-eyeing Dean. “I’ll let you know how much I enjoy it once you’re done playing hide and seek with Cas.”

Dean splutters, then scowls. “Do I look like I’m hiding?”

Instead of bringing up how Dean had been absent at lunch, Sam makes a show of looking around the kitchen. “There some other reason you look like you’re practicing to go on a cooking show?”

“It’s a friggin’ box mix,” Dean says defensively. Sam takes another sip of his coffee, glancing at the countertop pointedly over the rim of his cup. Sure that was the only thing he’d managed to make while Sam was busy deep-diving into the records, but it clearly wasn’t the _only_ thing he’d been planning to make.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters and starts clearing things away. “Sue me for not wanting to get my sugar fix from a supermarket all the time. Shit,” he swears suddenly, checking his watch. “I forgot about dinner.”

Dean hurriedly turns the oven on before grabbing two frozen pizzas out of their old industrial fridge. 

Sam finishes off the last of the coffee, depositing his mug in the sink. “Good to know researching a solution for your own dilemma isn’t worth your time then.” 

Dean shoves past him and starts in on the dishes. 

"You’re free to keep having slumber parties with the guy and braid each other’s hair and gush about your feelings, but I ain’t interested."

Sam frowns, unimpressed. He wants to push Dean and get some idea of what bug was up his ass about this situation, but he’s liable to have better luck getting the bunker to talk than his own brother.

“Fine,” Sam sighs. “Keep avoiding him. You don’t seem all that bothered with how long this is going to last anyway.”

Dean’s shoulders tighten. He scrubs harder at the bowl in his hand.

“What I’ve found so far’s entirely guesswork, in case you forgot. I could ask Cas if he remembers what he set off-” 

“‘No’ means no, Sam,” Dean interrupts sharply. 

Sam waves his hand and continues, unperturbed. “-but you’re being a stubborn dick about it. Even if he doesn’t, he might at least know _something_ about it. But nah,” Sam says sarcastically, “you’re fine. This is all fine.”

Dean doesn’t respond.

Sam rolls his eyes. Typical.

“I’m heading back to the storeroom. Let me know when dinner’s ready. If you’re serious about not wanting Cas getting suspicious, maybe try not to hide during dinner too.”

“Wait,” Dean calls out. Sam pauses halfway up the kitchen steps, not turning around. “What about Crowley?”

He glances over his shoulder.

“What about him?” Sam asks, before understanding dawns. Dean notices the change in his expression, brows raised excitedly.

“ _Right?_ ”

Sam bobs his head agreeably. “It’s worth a shot.”

* * *

Crowley doesn’t look up from his book at first at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, having quickly gotten used to the noisy ambling of the bunker’s inhabitants. They’d become prone to wandering down the halls more often over the last few days, and allowing himself to be distracted by the sound took away from what little enjoyment he’s been afforded by the Winchesters as part of his second chance at humanity. 

When the steps seem to slow near his room however, Crowley stops reading, though he doesn’t look up from his book. Only when the boys enter without so much as a knock does he look up, considering them coolly.

“Moose. Squirrel. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He glances at the small clock on the shelf. “It isn’t quite feeding time yet.”

The boys glance at each other, the elder Winchester giving his brother a look of constipated frustration, which earns half an eye roll in response. Interesting.

“What do you know about truth compulsion?” Sam asks. Interesting indeed.

“Skipping the pleasantries today I see.”

Dean grunts. “Just answer the question.”

“More than the average person,” Crowley responds, leaning back as he sets his book down on his lap. “For the sake of knowledge, of course. Neither Hell nor its denizens had much need of it.”

“How would you go about compelling someone?” Sam prompts.

Crowley hums thoughtfully. “There’s a number of spells or incantations to choose from, depending on efficiency or the intention of suffering for the truth-teller.”

“Any non-spell variants?”

“Such as a potion?” It’s an unlikely avenue for the Winchesters to utilize for personal reasons, bleeding away Crowley’s interest in the conversation completely. He runs a thumb idly across the pages of the book, wondering how long it would take him to finish it. “That’s rather… novel. ‘Out of fashion’ might be a better word for it.”

“But it can be done?” Sam pushes.

Crowley makes an agreeable, disdainful noise. “It leaves things more up to chance, but yes. Now, I’m assuming this game of Twenty Questions _isn’t_ because you have someone you want to interrogate with uncharacteristic subtlety.”

The younger Winchester hesitates, clearly debating on whether or not to tell him.

“Come now, Moose. I’ve been rather forthcoming to your brusqueness. You’ve piqued my curiosity; a little quid pro quo is fair.”

The brothers share a long look, whetting his curiosity all the more. 

“Squirrel?” he says cajolingly, assuming the elder of the two to be more inclined to divulge tidbits at the very least.

“There’s a… thing,” Dean answers, stilted. Crowley raises a brow, restraining himself from snarking back in reflex at his usual verboseness, prompting him to continue. “It’s making people tell the truth.”

“I gathered as much from the line of questioning earlier,” Crowley replies dryly. Not a potion then, as he’d initially assumed. “I take it people are overflowing with uncomfortable truths to confess to you.” 

Dean purses his lips, expression uncomfortable. Crowley raises a brow. 

“Ah,” he says, watching with some satisfaction as the elder Winchester stiffens up at the note of realization in his voice. “ _You’re_ the one overflowing with uncomfortable truths to confess.”

Well, what a lovely opportunity to be placed in his lap today. He leans forward slightly, smirking. “Pray tell, Squirrel, is there anything you’re itching to get off your chest?”

Dean scowls, arms crossed. “That’s not how it works.”

_‘More’s the disappointment’_ , Crowley thinks regretfully, leaning back with a shrug. “It was worth a shot.”

He props his head on his hand, watching the brothers thoughtfully. “The thrall of a cursed object is harder to break than a spell. Destroying it _could_ work, but there’s as much risk of magical blowback.”

Dean’s scowl doesn’t abate. “Great. That’s _super_ helpful, Crowley.”

“ _Are_ you asking for my help?” he asks curiously.

Sam frowns, more of a grimace really, and says, “Whatever you know about things like this would be useful since we uh… we’re not really sure what’s causing this.”

Crowley’s brows rise up of their own volition. Well. Maybe he and Moose should be grateful they’d made it out of that blasted ritual alive if this was their usual line of luck.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Sam continues. 

“I’ve narrowed it down to a few things, but short of actually touching them we don’t know which one’s causing it. So far it doesn’t seem to be dangerous, but obviously that’s not something to take a chance on.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully. There’s not much to gain from actually helping the Winchesters, but it _is_ a sight more interesting than drab walls of his room and his current reading material, rather regretting the selection he’d nabbed out of the library.

Mulling over what he’s been told so far, he glances at Dean in consideration, only needing a moment to confirm a suspicion, but keeps his gaze trained on him until Dean scowls in discomfort.

“You wanna take a picture, Crowley?” Dean asks, arms crossed.

Crowley smirks. “If you’re offering.”

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Seeing as the spell doesn’t seem malicious enough to injure, you _could_ try waiting it out, let it wear off on its own.” The elder Winchester makes a face at that, a cross of discomfort and panic before quickly suppressing it.

“Or?” Dean prompts gruffly.

Crowley shrugs. “There’s no use of casting a negating spell without something to direct it at.”

The brothers glance at each other, silently communicating. Well, more scowling from Dean and exasperated tiredness communicated through eyebrows and pinched lips from Sam. It’s more boring than amusing, honestly.

“There _might_ be one way to find the object causing all this,” he says purposefully slowly, watching the boys stand to attention like alert little bloodhounds. The thought gives him a fleeting pang of nostalgia for Growley, but there was no use in indulging in the feeling.

“How?” Dean says impatiently.

“Bring me the items, of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Sam parrots sarcastically. “And how’s that supposed to help?”

“I wasn’t _always_ the king of Hell,” he replies dryly. “I used to be a witch during my first stint at humanity, and I’m the son of a witch besides.”

“Again, that helps us how?” Dean asks. Sam dips his head in agreement, glancing at Crowley expectantly.

“Unless your little spell stripped me of my magical sensitivity, I _should_ be able to sense the magic imbued in a cursed object, given that it’s powerful enough.” He huffs a little disappointed sigh. “Do keep up, boys.”

Sam glances at Dean expectantly. Dean’s scowl deepens as his gaze flits between him and Crowley.

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “We’ll bring them by after dinner.” He jerks his head sharply in the direction of the door. “Let’s go, Sammy.”

“I don’t like this,” Dean says quietly as soon as they’re outside Crowley’s room. “Not one bit.”

Sam shrugs, not unsympathetically. “You wanted answers quick, he’s offering them.”

* * *

Dean’s already sitting at the dining table, pizzas laid out in the center and a few slices in front of him when Sam and Cas enter the kitchen. He’d been distractedly fiddling with his phone, but Sam catches the aborted glance in their direction that he covers for by immediately shoving a slice of pizza into his mouth. He rolls his eyes as he takes a seat across from Dean, watching as his brother tries not to show his obvious relief when Cas takes the empty seat at what passes for the head of the table instead of the one beside him.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean replies, smiling stiffly. It’s not immediately noticeable for what it’s worth, what with his cheeks being stuffed full, Sam just knows what to look for. Dean’s lucky Cas doesn’t.

“Sam said you were busy today.”

“Mmhm. Yup.” Dean darts a glance at Sam, like he’s trying to mind-read whatever line he’d spun for Cas. Sam shrugs in response; it’d been safer to leave it at that and let Dean fill it in as he saw fit. 

“Chores were piling up since no one here actually _does_ them.” It’s said without heat, so Sam only feels a little guilty at the statement. “Did a few loads of laundry, cleared out expired food from the fridge.” With a half-glance at Cas, he adds, “Made that box mix you bought during the last supply run.”

Cas perks up with interest.

Dean clears his throat, staring intently down at his plate even as he can feel both Sam and Cas’ gaze on him.

“It’s easy enough that a monkey could do it,” Dean shrugs, “‘s kinda the idea.”

Figuring that’s all there was to really talk about, he goes back to scarfing down dinner. 

“I was hoping to try and make it myself,” Cas says, though he doesn’t seem to be put out by the fact that Dean made it instead.

Dean shrugs again, a little awkwardly. “We’ll get you another one on the next supply run.” Before Cas can say anything else, Dean juts his head at the table. “Eat.” He takes a large bite of pizza as an example.

Cas obeys, not noticing the slight side-eye Sam gives Dean.

Since there’s no veto on _him_ talking to Cas, and because it’s more than a little weird to just eat silently, Sam strikes up a conversation with Cas. 

Having polished off his dinner, Dean extricates himself from the dining table while Sam and Cas keep talking. Depositing his plate in the sink, he nabs a clean plate from the dryer rack, piling on a few of the remaining slices. 

Dean pastes on a smile when the conversation stalls as they both turn to look at him.

“You guys keep at it, I’m gonna go give Crowley his dinner.”

“I can do it,” Cas offers, starting to get up.

“Nah,” Dean says hastily, briefly darting a significant look at Sam and hoping that _‘I’ll bring the stuff from the storeroom to him, keep Cas occupied’_ gets suitably conveyed. “You guys can deal with cleaning up.” 

He doesn’t give Cas (or Sam) the opportunity to say anything else and makes his way out of there.

* * *

Crowley spreads the items out on his desk, glancing between them curiously. 

Dean stands stiffly nearby, watching Crowley with a narrow-eyed look as he hovers his hand briefly above each object. He doesn’t really _need_ to come so close to touching them, but it’s something of an old habit now, and the closeness helps him focus while trying to pick out nuances in the magical signature of the objects, if they had any. He takes longer than he normally would, allowing himself a moment to muse over the possibility of whether Dean could get any stiffer if he had a curtain rod shoved up his arse.

“Well?” Dean asks impatiently.

Crowley hums, unbothered. “The mirror definitely has some strong magical residue.”

“What about the other items?”

“The feather has some traces of it as well, much less potent than whatever’s on the mirror, of course.” 

“Of course,” Dean parrots sarcastically, quiet enough that Crowley opts to ignore it. 

He picks up the ring box to take a closer look at it. “This, however, is just a trinket, albeit a genuinely old one. Decent craftsmanship. Haven’t seen one like it in a good while.”

He sets it back down, reaching over them for his dinner. He eyes it with thinly veiled dismay before taking a bite. Not his preferred fare he’ll admit, but well, beggars can’t be choosers.

Dean frowns and opens his mouth, either to snark or make another frustration-laced comment, Crowley’s not sure which, when a knock at the door distracts them. Clearly not waiting for a response, Sam pops his head in, the rest of his body quickly following suit.

“I appreciate the pantomime at manners,” Crowley says dryly. Using the hand holding the pizza to gesture sardonically, he says, “Please, feel free to come in.”

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond, closing the door behind him. “Did you guys figure it out?”

Dean slants him a glance. “You wanna answer that?”

Crowley rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. Always impatient, these two. “I can confirm that two of the items _are_ bespelled.”

“And?” Sam asks.

Crowley shrugs. “That’s it.” He takes another bite of his pizza. “One’s more powerful than the other, but that says very little about what either does.”

Dean scowls. “I thought you said you’d actually be useful.”

Unperturbed, Crowley chews slowly, watching Dean. Sam clears his throat uncomfortably.

“You’ve one less item to consider now,” Crowley points out. Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t look any more grateful about that than he did a few minutes ago, so Crowley adds condescendingly, “As much as magical nuances evade you, having a natural affinity for magic does _not_ include being able to see the specific spells or curses an object might hold written in a script that only my eyes can behold.” 

Dean’s scowl intensifies, but he pays it no heed, glancing at the two objects once again. 

“If my memory on mythological history serves, I’d wager a guess that these items match rather well with possessions that belong to Veritas and, hmm, Ma’at if I had to guess. Of course, the mirror’s not the original.”

Sam frowns. “How can you be sure?”

“It came into my possession a few centuries ago,” Crowley replies, not offering any more details.

“Okay, fine, so if it’s a knockoff means it’s not it, right?” At Crowley’s neutral expression, Dean growls, “ _Right?_ ”

Crowley doesn’t respond at first, raising a brow instead. The Winchesters have yet to learn the obvious implications of his silence, but it’s at least amusing to watch the elder Winchester get riled up in the process. Sam, sadly, is largely unflustered by Crowley. 

At Dean’s continued narrow-eyed look, Crowley relents, sighing a little theatrically. “Casting spells doesn’t always require that something be ‘original’, spell ingredients themselves notwithstanding. In fact, there’ve been many a knockoff made and bespelled to mimic the effects of the object that inspired it.”

Dean swears colorfully. 

“Great. So we’re still at square one. Fan-friggin-tastic.” He slaps a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly. “Alright, y’know what, forget figuring out which one it is. It’s either one or the other, so let’s just do that negating spell or whatever you suggested on both.”

“ _Technically_ ,” Crowley drawls, “I didn’t say there was one for this situation, because there isn’t.” 

Dean scowls, expression dark and building in anger. Crowley holds a hand up to cut off whatever tirade he’s likely winding up for at the same time that Sam places a hand on his shoulder with an expression on his face like he’s mentally telling his brother to calm down. Dean doesn’t acknowledge the look, but he takes a deep breath, arms crossed. Sam turns to Crowley then with a prompting look.

“Negating spells are purifiers of a sort, ridding things with malicious effects or intent. The truth, uncomfortable as it may be, doesn’t quite qualify. Of course, I could have dispelled it with a snap of my fingers,” he says, underscoring the words with a loud _snap_ , “back when I was a demon. Doesn’t quite have the same effect now, of course.”

Dean runs both hands through his hair, yanking at the short strands. “This is- this is absolutely fucking useless. I’m out.”

He weaves past Sam, slamming the door loudly behind him as he leaves.

Sam winces, giving Crowley a vaguely apologetic expression.

Crowley offers up the now empty plate in response. Sam accepts it with a quiet sigh. “Thanks for the help, I guess.”

* * *

Feeling Sam’s gaze on him, Dean quits his glaring contest with the table, redirecting it to Sam instead. “What?”

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Sam offers carefully, setting the artifact boxes down. He drags a nearby stool closer, taking a seat across from Dean. 

Dean grunts. “Needed to think.” At Sam’s raised eyebrows, Dean changes tracks, asking instead, “How’re you holdin’ up?”

Sam sighs. “You don’t need to keep asking that every other day.”

“It’s my job to keep asking that,” Dean rebutts. “I’ve been watching out for you since you were in diapers, Sammy. Just cause you’re wearing big boy pants now, doesn’t mean that’s changed.”

Sam sighs again. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Dean cuts him off before he can try to object. “I know you’re not a hundred percent yet, I ain’t expecting it so soon after all that crap. But don’t pretend like you’ve forgotten how you could barely leave your damn room without exhausting yourself less than a week ago.”

He runs a hand over his mouth. “I’m not sitting here waiting for you to heal up so we can jump onto the next hunt we can find. I’m friggin _glad_ you’re able to run around like this, and I’ve kept my mouth shut so far when you keep trying to push yourself, so at least be honest with me when I ask.”

“Like how you’re being so honest with Cas?” Sam says sarcastically.

Dean’s expression goes pinched.

Sam sighs, looking away. “I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”

Dean reads between the lines of that statement, expression shading into an apology.

Sam raises his hand to stall whatever Dean might try to say. “I said I’d help.”

He stretches his legs out, feet bumping against Dean’s before crossing them at the ankle. “You can’t remember anything weird that stood out that day?”

Dean leans back, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes with a thoughtful frown. “Not really? Cas’d been yammering about a bunch of things while we were sorting, same as when we’d first started. Dude’s like a damn encyclopedia.”

He slants a slightly tired, slightly amused side-eye at Sam. “You’re a matched pair, getting excited over all this crap.”

Sam shrugs, unapologetic.

“Wasn’t really tuning in when he went off on some items…” he trails off.

“What?”

Dean straightens up. “Show me that feather.”

Sam hands the box over.

Dean stares down at the feather for a long moment, gaze going distant. After a moment, he mutters, “Son of a bitch.”

Sam perks up.

“This is it. This is the cause of this entire fucking joke. It has to be.” 

Sam opens his mouth, about to ask how sure Dean is, but Dean continues right on. “We were clearing off some shelves, and I’d been griping about how the stuff in here was a pile of useless crap, just sitting around collecting dust for us to clean off. I remember- I remember handing that to him after I’d checked it, told him to give it to you so you could make the final call on tossing it. He opened it up and took out the feather, to take a closer look or what I don’t know, and then he started spouting off something or other about how ostrich feathers were a big deal in Egypt and some other place forever ago.”

Sam blinks, taking it all in. “You’re sure?”

Dean scowls, closing the box roughly and setting it aside. “Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t actually look at any of this before taking it to Crowley so I didn’t realize it until just now.” 

Noticing the thoughtful look on Sam’s face, he raises a brow. 

“What do you remember about those old Egyptian myths I was obsessed with when I was a kid?”

Dean blinks in surprise, then shrugs. “Not a lot. They weren’t exactly _my_ nerd thing. What about them?”

“There’s an old Egyptian legend about when a person dies; their soul would stand for judgment on what kind of afterlife they deserved. Anubis would be the judge, weighing their heart against the feather of Ma’at to test its purity. The person being judged would have to do something they called ‘negative confessions’ - basically ‘I have not done this,’ a couple dozen times over while their heart was being weighed. If the heart weighed the same as the feather, he’d grant them passage into Aaru, which was something like their version of Heaven.” 

“So, what happens if the heart was heavier?”

“The goddess Ammit would eat it and they’d be condemned to eternity in the underworld.”

“Well, that’s abysmal,” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the dark bedtime story, but- wait, didn’t Crowley say that this feather might be Ma-whatever’s?”

“Ma’at,” Sam corrects. “And yeah, that was my guess too when I thought the mirror might belong to Veritas. But I got the feeling that he thinks they’re both knockoffs.”

“You’re sure?” Dean asks skeptically. “Cuz I don’t wanna have to keep an eye out for a dog-headed Egyptian god looking to chomp on my heart anytime soon. I didn’t sign up for this when I agreed to help you.” 

“Crocodile-head. The dog-head is Anubis,” Sam corrects again. 

Dean rolls his eyes with a muttered, “Nerd.”

“I’m sure enough,” Sam says evenly. “I don’t remember anything in the lore saying Ma’at’s feather was used to judge the living, and definitely not like this. Ammit only gets involved once the person’s dead and up for judgment.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back a few loose strands that were falling onto his face. “If you’re willing to stick around for a little longer, we can search these files, maybe we’ll find something.”

Dean grunts in agreement, grabbing the nearest stack of papers. Sam follows suit.

The click of a latch breaks Sam’s attention from his papers sometime later. He looks up in time to see Dean reaching for-

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

Dean freezes up, still staring at the feather, his hand only an inch or two away from making contact with it. “Uh…”

“Please don’t tell me you were actually gonna touch it.” Dean stays silent, not meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam sighs. “What, exactly, were you hoping to do by touching it?”

“...cancel out the effects?” Dean offers hesitantly.

“Did you find some records that said that’ll work?” Sam asks patiently, knowing what the actual answer was likely to be. As expected, Dean doesn’t respond, lips pressed thin into a pout, and drops his hand with a quiet _thump_. Sam gives him a flat, unimpressed look, opening his hand out to Dean. “Hand it over.”

He all but shoves it into Sam’s hands.

“Huh.”

“What?” Dean asks grouchily.

There’s a label here, at the bottom.” He holds the box closer to get a better look. “ _E-5-23-58._ ”

Dean starts rifling through his papers immediately, eyes scanning through them quickly. Sam puts the box aside and does the same. It doesn’t take too long before they find it.

“I got it,” Sam says, still skimming through the file.

“Well?” Dean says impatiently. 

Sam rolls his eyes, turning the file around and pushing it in his direction. “There isn’t much in here. Based on the date of the report and what Henry told us before, it looks like it was part of a bunch of things they’d acquired before… y’know.”

Dean quickly scans through the page and snorts even as his eyebrows pull into a frown. “You can’t even call this a paragraph. All it says here is that it’s an ‘ancestral feather from Egypt’ and that the last owners said whoever holds it could ‘divine truth from anyone’. The ‘further examination required’ footnote is a great help,” he says sarcastically, flipping to the next page roughly. A scrawl of dark ink on the back of the page catches his eye. 

Sam perks up when Dean makes a surprised noise. “What?”

“There’s some notes here,” Dean mutters, squinting to make sense of the chicken scratch handwriting.

Sam leans closer, curiously. “What does it say?”

“Apparently one of these guys accidentally touched it before; dude didn’t suffer any effects, but if he asked something you didn’t get a choice in how you answer, trying to lie would cause ‘clawing pain’. Yeesh.” 

He pushes the file back to Sam.

Sam frowns, glancing down at the file and then back up at Dean. “You feel anything like that?”

“I kept getting a scratchy feeling in my throat like I wanna hack or cough sometimes but… what?” Dean trails off, catching Sam’s frown.

“I’ve been getting that feeling too. I thought I was coming down with something.”

Their eyes meet as realization occurs to them at the same time.

“Shit,” Dean says emphatically.

They’re quiet for a long moment, letting the information sink in. Finally, Sam says, “At least we learned something from this.” 

Dean gives him a confused, suspicious look.

Sam smiles and says, “Wear gloves.”

He’s right, of course. That doesn’t stop Dean from throwing the nearest book at him anyways.

Sam catches it with a quiet _‘oof’_ , rolling his eyes at Dean. Setting it down, he says, “Look on the bright side.” 

“There’s a bright side?” Dean says skeptically.

“At least it doesn’t make us tell the truth to any random joe schmoe that we talk to.” 

Dean snorts.

He leans back with a sigh, rubbing at his jaw. “Seeing as these old codgers have a grand load of bupkis on what to actually do now, any bright ideas? The truth ain’t pretty and no one's gonna like the stuff I’ll end up saying, least of all me,” Dean says. 

Sam gives him a look but doesn’t comment on it. 

Noticing the look, Dean says, “Don’t pretend you ain’t got things you don’t wanna be forced to air out, even to Cas.”

_‘Probably nowhere to your scale,’_ Sam thinks to himself, refraining from saying it out loud. Dean’s dark mood from earlier that night had waned, even their lackluster discovery hadn’t brought it roaring back in, and Sam doesn’t want to stoke it back by picking a fight now.

Before he can say anything he surprises himself with a yawn. He takes a quick glance at his watch, blinking in surprise at how late it had gotten. “I’ll pester Crowley in the morning for those negating spells he mentioned, figure they’re worth a shot.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” With an expression like he doesn’t expect Sam to agree, he adds, “You gonna keep Cas busy?”

Sam slants a look at Dean. He’s got some idea of what Dean’s trying to avoid; unsurprisingly, getting him to talk about his feelings is like pulling teeth. This being the equivalent of him trying to dodge a trip to the dentist.

“I won’t make any promises,” he tells Dean. “And besides, Crowley said it should probably wear off on its own, right? So, wait it out. It’s already been, what, three days?”

Dean frowns petulantly. “And we’re back to trusting Crowley again.”

Sam gives him a look.

Dean concedes with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, raising his arms up in a stretch. “Fine. God, I can’t wait for this to be over.”


	4. Chapter 4

Cas wanders into the kitchen silently sometime in the mid-morning, quiet enough that Dean doesn’t notice him until he pipes up with a, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean very nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Cas’ voice. Instead, he ends up knocking the can of blueberry compote off the island and onto his foot before it rolls onto the floor with a dull _thunk_ , oozing its contents onto the kitchen floor.

“Ow, shit! Fucking again!” Dean curses, hobbling back to lean against the counter while his foot throbs. 

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Since this is the second time this week that I’ve dropped something on my damn foot, it’s pretty obvious I’m not okay,” Dean grumbles, flexing his foot and wincing. He stares down at the mess on the floor with frustrated dismay before glancing up at Cas with a frown. “I’m gonna put a damn bell on you someday, I swear. You’re supposed to be less ninja-y now that you’re human.”

“My apologies,” Cas replies.

Dean grunts, eyeing him warily for a moment. “You need something?”

“I was feeling hungry,” Cas says, because of course he was. Why else would he be here?

Dean waves his hand in the direction of the fridge as he scrounges around for the paper towels he’d stowed away. “We’ve got plenty of leftovers. Go nuts.”

When he turns back, Cas is barely a few feet away, the blueberry puddle on the floor the only thing dividing them. Dean flinches back reflexively, biting back another curse. Dude’s ninja skills were starting to get annoying now.

“Let me help you clean up.”

Dean frowns but relents, handing over half the paper towels to Cas. Better to avoid shutting him out more than he already has and actually make him suspicious; he’s been lucky so far that Cas hasn’t caught on to his avoidance tactics.

“Woah, woah! Don’t go using all of ‘em at once,” Dean says, grabbing his wrist and barely stopping him in time from depositing all of it over the mess. He lets go almost immediately after, not quite meeting Cas’ eyes as he quickly explains how to actually clean it up without making it worse or wasting all their paper towels. Cas readjusts accordingly and it’s only a matter of minutes before they’ve got the spill cleaned up.

Dean stares down at the clean if inevitably sticky floor with a mildly frustrated sigh as he waves Cas off to eat. So much for making a pie. 

“We’re out of cereal,” Cas calls out, sounding disappointed as he adds, “There’s no more bread either.”

“Used it up for a bread pudding recipe I found online.” He can practically sense Cas’ dismayed expression without looking up so he adds, “It was already stale. If I kept it any longer it’d start growing mold, and knowing you, I’d end up running you to the nearest ER for food poisoning.”

Cas frowns. “I know better than to eat food gone bad.”

Dean shakes his head in a _‘yeah-yeah’_ gesture and just waves in the direction of the fridge again. The entire kitchen could probably use a proper cleanup, but a bunch of wet towels would do for now.

When he straightens up again, it’s to find Cas watching him as he eats the bread pudding straight out of one of the containers he’d stowed it in. Instead of being embarrassed about being caught staring, since when has he ever in fact, he takes it as an opportunity to start up a conversation.

“What were you making?” Cas asks, glancing curiously at the ingredients on the island.

“Pie,” Dean says shortly, frowning down at the counter. He sighs again, muttering to himself, “I’ll need to make a supply run.” Cas apparently still hears him somehow, because he can see the guy perk up in his periphery.

“May I join you?”

Dean opens his mouth, mentally scrambling for some kind of excuse and “No,” is what comes out instead. He winces internally as the little hopeful smile Cas had wavers. Seriously, fuck this stupid curse for taking away any of the tact he’s had for the past thirty-plus years and turning him into more of an ass than he tries to be. “I mean, aren’t you guys busy?” 

He’s disappointed but mostly unsurprised when Cas shakes his head. “Sam mentioned taking a break today since we’ve been making good progress.”

Right. That must be the excuse Sam gave him to try those negating spells on the feather without Cas hovering nearby.

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, turning his back on Cas as he shoves the half-kneaded pie dough into the fridge. He needs to get changed before they head out, considering there’s blueberry paste dotting his jeans and shoes. “Go get your coat and meet me in the war room in ten minutes or I’m leaving without you.” 

* * *

Rick’s busy killing time reorganizing the shelves behind the counter during a lull in his afternoon shift when the bell over the door jingles. 

“Afternoon!” Rick calls out, glancing over his shoulder. “Need any help with anything?”

“Good afternoon,” the guy rumbles back, and whoa, that’s a gravelly voice. Did the dude have rocks and wood chips for breakfast? “And no thank you,” the guy continues, “I’ll manage.”

Rick shrugs agreeably and lets him go. He darts a glance outside the window while the guy wanders the aisles slowly, wondering if he’d been so lost in his head that he hadn’t heard a car pull up. 

He blinks in surprise when he recognizes the giant black car from the previous day idling near the air pumps at the far corner of the gas station. ‘ _Oh God,_ ’ Rick thinks despairingly, ‘ _not that dude again. What effin bad karma did I rack up recently to deserve this so soon?_ ’

It takes him a few moments of bemoaning his luck to realize that there weren’t any other cars outside. So, either Gravel-Voice guy decided to take a leisurely walk up to the station to buy things instead of going to the corner store down the street, _or_ he was Grumpy Male Model dude’s friend. Possibly even the same guy who’d been with him the other day. 

Apparently the guy was able to make friends with nicer people, who knew.

Rick curiously starts looking for Gravel-Voice guy again, crowing internally when he finds him standing in the aisle that’s got the giant mirror in the back angled just right for Rick to be able to see him better. He’s half cut off by the angle of the shelves, but he can still see the guy’s face just fine. 

And man, what a face. He’s got a slightly scruffy look going that’s definitely doing him some favors, the slight frown he’s got doesn’t even detract from it. Probably his resting expression if Rick had to guess - wouldn’t be all that surprising considering the company he keeps. He watches as the guy brushes back a stray lock of hair drooping onto his forehead, hair spiking up slightly in front from the gesture. Even with the ‘absentminded professor’ vibe he’s giving off (and seriously, if he _is_ one, Rick might reconsider the college idea), there’s something about him that’s unfairly hot. The kind of hot his tía Rachel would classify as a stone-cold fox. Which, hey, works as a better nickname for the guy too.

Considering the newly assigned ‘Stone-Cold Fox’ status of the guy, Rick has to reassess his initial assumption from the previous day. No way Grumpy Male Model dude is dating someone like this guy and _still_ grumpy.

In a bid to not seem like a creep staring at a customer, Rick goes back to reorganizing the shelves while waiting for the guy to come and ring up his purchases.

He gets briefly distracted from his work when he notices a familiar face pass by the large front windows. Mal wanders in, clocking Stone-Cold Fox’s presence almost immediately, and gives Rick a wave before heading to the rack of magazines and rifling through it.

Rick straightens up when Stone-Cold Fox makes his way to the counter. This is usually the part where he slips into his usual customer service shtick and makes small talk, but something about the guy has him feeling flustered and tongue-tied so he just smiles in a way he hopes isn’t too awkward and starts scanning his purchases.

While the guy roots around in his pockets for change, Rick decides to take the opportunity he’s been handed to get a better, up-close look at him.

“Yes?” Stone-Cold Fox says, squinting at him. If it wasn’t for the squint, Rick would be able to see what was probably a pair of knockout blue eyes to go with the rest of him. It takes him a few horrifically long seconds after that to realize he got caught staring.

“Sorry,” Rick says, looking down to pay more attention to bagging someone’s purchase than he ever has.

“Is there something on my face?” 

Rick looks back up reflexively and ends up making eye contact. He forgets to look away again, but neither does the guy, and damn, what do you even _call_ that shade of blue?

Belatedly, Rick remembers that he was asked a question. Still stuck on the guy’s insane blue eyes, his mouth decides to go ahead and answer before his brain’s formulated an actual response. “Other than those ridiculously blue eyes-” He freezes, then stutters, “uh- I mean, no. No, sir.”

Stone-Cold Fox tilts his head. “Ridiculous?”

Rick shakes his head nervously. “Bad choice of words.”

“What would a better choice of words be?” He honestly sounds curious, which is the only explanation Rick has for the fact that he answers with, “Well, it’s blue enough to drown in.”

Stone-Cold Fox frowns. Rick winces internally, because the guy’s definitely gonna ask for the manager now, and he’s gonna get screwed over for flirt-harassing a customer.

“That’s not humanly possible,” the guy says slowly, frown still in place. It takes Rick a few moments to un-brace for trouble and read the confused frown for what it is. He relaxes, breathing out a small sigh of relief.

“It’s uh-” Rick casts around in his head, trying to remember what his high school English teacher had called it, “-hyperbole, I think. Exaggeration, y’know?”

Stone-Cold Fox nods. Guess he remembered it right after all. Or the guy doesn’t know the difference. Whatever, he’ll take it.

Before he gets the opportunity to stick his foot in his mouth again, Grumpy Male Model dude comes up behind the guy with a gruff, “Got everything you need, Cas?”

‘Cas’ turns to look back at him. “Yes-” he starts to say when the guy decides to interrupt him.

“Great,” he says, grabbing at his friend’s purchases. “Let’s go. Stuff’s gonna start melting in the car if you keep dawdling any longer.”

‘Cas’ glances back at Rick even as his friend marches off without him, manages to finally root out the change he’d been searching for and hands it over with a quick ‘thank you’ that sounded more like a question by the end of it before following after him.

Rick sighs as he watches them drive off. 

“Way to make a complete fool of yourself with the regulation hottie,” Mal says cheerfully, leaning against the counter.

“Gah!” Rick jumps, flinching sideways away from them. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, straightening up with an annoyed glance. “You buying something or not?”

Mal grins innocently, holding up a packet of Twizzlers.

“Took you all this time to decide on that?” Rick asks sarcastically.

They shrug, smirking. “Got distracted.” Plucking a candy bar and some gum from the boxes by the cash register, they slide it over to Rick. “I’ll get these too if it’ll make you feel better.”

Rick huffs, rolling his eyes.

He’d gone and made a fool of himself in front of an older, hot dude without even getting a chance to salvage some of his dignity. Even worse that he ended up having an audience for it. Sure, the dude somehow didn’t clue onto the fact that he’d been failing at low-key flirting with him when he’d been doing it, but still, it was the principle of the thing. If Grumpy Male Model dude had waited just a couple more minutes… 

Rick sighs quietly to himself. Maybe they _were_ dating and Grumpy Male Model dude’s just the really possessive, jealous type. 

Still, Stone-Cold Fox dude could definitely do better than Grumpy Male Model dude and not just because their combined hotness just didn’t seem fair to the world; he deserved someone nicer if varying levels of ‘grumpy to downright unfriendly’ were the other guy’s only settings.

On the off-chance that they weren’t, Rick himself would be willing to try his luck… if his friend wasn’t around to catch him trying. He does _not_ seem like the kinda guy who’d like someone trying to go after his friend (who he almost definitely has feelings for - unless Rick’s bi-fi has gone kaput, and he’s not accepting that because he hasn’t failed at reading vibes yet). It’s almost too bad he can’t ask Mal for a second opinion, but the five seconds of interaction between the two earlier wasn’t much for them to go on. Plus, he’s not too keen on showing his hand and opening himself up to even more ribbing from them.

Tempting as it is to take another, hopefully more successful shot at flirting with Stone-Cold Fox if he ever comes back, he’s not sure yet if he’s willing to risk his life for the attempt.

* * *

Dean sticks around for lunch just long enough to shovel some food into his face and then makes a break for it to the garage. God is he ever grateful that this giant, secret society building has a decent garage.

Getting under the hood of his Baby is a kind of comfort that all his hours in the kitchen can’t emulate. It’s a part of his heart, and still home beyond the place they’re living in now.

Dean’s proud of how well he’s taken care of her over the years for her to still purr as smoothly as she does when he takes her out on the road. But times like these, when there’s nothing really requiring him to be elbow deep in her guts beyond a perfunctory check to make sure everything’s as it’s supposed to be, he learns he can stand to be a little annoyed at himself for his efficiency.

Sure he could tinker around with the other old beauties gathering dust there, but it’s not the same.

With the spell still going strong, and the risk of bumping into Cas loitering around, it won’t be safe to head back downstairs for a while yet.

Rubbing some grease off with a stray rag, he eyes the Impala. He decides to take her out for another spin, _alone_ this time, and clear his head a bit.

He drives in silence for a while, the white noise hum of the Impala’s engine soothing him.

With hardly any traffic on the road, Dean slips into autopilot as he relaxes deeper into his seat, easing down on the accelerator just a little. He’d needed this. 

Inevitably, his thoughts manage to make their way back to Cas. Cas sitting beside Sam listening to him speaking animatedly; curled over his mug of coffee sleepily at the kitchen table; a sleep-rumpled Cas in his pajamas brushing past Dean in the hallway. There's so many little moments they have now that they'd never gotten a chance to have before. 

Annoyed with himself, he starts fiddling with the radio.

_“Thoughts running through my head, and I feel the love is dead, I'm loving angels instead-”_

Dean’s hand shoots out, jamming the button to change the channel a little harder than necessary.

_“I tried to give you consolation when your old man had let you down. Like a fool, I fell in love with you, you've turned my whole world upside down-”_

Dean aggressively side-eyes the radio and skips through a few channels.

_“-I've traveled so far, to change this lonely life. I wanna know what love is, I want you to show me-”_

Dean glares at the radio. _‘Seriously?’_

If God was out there somewhere in the universe, He was probably laughing His ass off at Dean right about now.

Fine, alright. Apparently there was no ignoring it because his own damn car radio was against him too.

Redirecting his glare onto the tarmac, he works his jaw. The gist of everything he’s been avoiding thinking of is simple: he wants more than what he has right now with Cas.

He’s not sure when he finally realized it, the underlying frustration at Cas always leaving tinted by a need to have him stay that he didn’t quite understand till now. He finally has what he’s wanted now with Cas here, on Earth and human to boot; and isn’t that enough? That’s more than Dean ever thought he’d get, more than Dean ever intended to ask for. 

And he never even asked for it. Not when he knew what it would cost Cas.

But still, here they are.

And Dean still wants more even when he’s afraid of trying to think of what ‘more’ might entail. But what’s the use? Wanting more in life than the cards he’s been dealt never ended well.

Being in a relationship was the closest thing in their lives that could resemble ‘normal’ and it’s never worked out for Dean whenever he’d tried. Trying to give up the hunting life didn’t really change anything, so it stands to reason that Dean himself was the deciding factor. If he did try again with Cas against his better judgment, it’s bound to fail. And that’s assuming Cas wants it too.

At best, he’d gently reject Dean in his own Cas-like manner; it’d get awkward after but they’d plow on somehow. At worst, he’d leave. Maybe never even speak to Dean again, leaving him to glean updates on how he’s doing from Sam.

Dean’s survived all these years only ever needing Sam in his life. Now, Cas is an irreplaceable part right alongside his brother. He can’t _afford_ to lose him. He’d made shit attempts at trying to make peace with the prospect in the past, every other time he lost Cas; he couldn’t control what happened those times, but this time, it’d be his fault.

And that’s why it can’t happen, why he can’t breathe a word about it to Cas. He’ll repress it deep down with all the other shit he’s repressed until it kills him or he dies.

It’s better than the alternative.

* * *

“Afternoon, Moose,” Crowley says affably, setting down his book as Sam wanders in with lunch. “How goes your little quandary?”

“Do you actually care?”

“Somewhat,” Crowley admits, earning a surprised look from Sam. “It’s an entertaining conundrum you’ve found yourselves in. I rather wish I could see more of it instead of just the fringes.”

Sam sighs. “I don’t know why I expected something different.” With a shake of his head, he sets Crowley’s lunch down and makes to leave. “I need to get back to work, those negating spells you gave me were useless.”

Crowley shrugs. “I told you they wouldn’t work. Patience should serve you better, I’d think.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. Crowley waves a hand at the bed, the only other space to sit available in the room. “Stick around, chitchat for a bit.”

“Why?” Sam asks, a little suspiciously.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the saying ‘no man is an island’ and all the philosophical nonsense attached to it,” Crowley says nonchalantly, starting in on his lunch.

Sam’s brows furrow. “Are you saying you’re _lonely_?” He asks, voice pitching up towards the end.

Crowley slants a flat glance at him. “I’m saying a little company wouldn’t be remiss. Feel free to pick my brains for a solution while I eat.”

Sam hesitates before settling back against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re sure there’s nothing else we can do to cancel out the spell?”

Crowley gives a small shake of his head, chewing slowly. 

“What do we do if it doesn’t wear off then?”

“There’s no such thing. Contracts with hell are lasting, within the limitations of the agreement and barring external influences, of course; spells of the non-dangerous variety, by its nature, do wear off - it’s a guaranteed inevitability.” Guessing at the reasoning for Sam’s question, he asks, “How long has Squirrel been caught in that spell?”

“Three days, going on four now. And uh, it’s a little broader than just Dean.”

Crowley raises his brows slightly at that, noting that little kernel of information for later.

“We managed to figure out which of the items was causing it,” Sam adds hesitantly.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley replies.

Sam rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t because of anything you said. Dean figured it out.”

“I’m sure some of what I said had some effect, so you’re still welcome.”

Sam snorts, biting back a smile.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

Sam raises a brow.

“Not to sound like I’m questioning your graciousness,” Crowley starts, with an underlying current of sarcasm that makes it sound like precisely that, “since I _do_ appreciate the change in fare.” He nods at his food in indication. “I am curious though as to what changed.”

Sam snorts. “Dean’s been feeling like cooking lately.”

“My compliments to the chef then,” Crowley says, inclining his head. “I’d offer my services more often if I have this to look forward to.”

Sam shakes his head, amused. 

“Another question, if I may?”

Sam glances at his watch. “Fine, but I’m leaving right after.”

“As much as I’ve been enjoying this quasi-domestic situation, there’s some irony at playing roommates with the two of you, well, four of you I suppose. I assume you can guess where I’m going with this?”

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We’re working on it.”

Crowley raises a brow curiously.

“Look, just because I cured you doesn’t mean any of us suddenly trust you to behave out there or that we’ve become friends.”

“I’m hurt by that, I truly am,” Crowley says dryly. “And here I thought we’d had a moment back in that church.”

Sam eyes him solemnly, making him slightly uncomfortable. He firmly refuses to let it show however, friends they are not, after all.

“I want to believe you’d actually try to be better, but we haven’t survived this long by just hoping.”

“And here I thought it was sheer dumb luck and the fondness of an erstwhile angel.”

Sam’s expression turns unamused.

Crowley sighs. “If a ‘solution’ and some actual freedom is so hard to come by, I’d like to offer one of my own.”

Sam raises a brow, reluctantly curious.

“I leave, but I check in with you _voluntarily_ every so often to prove I’m still on the straight and narrow and all that. Well, in a manner of speaking of course.”

Sam frowns.

Crowley huffs. “You know what I mean. Look, if all this hullabaloo we went through isn’t just a temporary reset switch for me, I’m not too keen on returning to hell and doing the process over, let alone staying locked in there with Abaddon and the rest. So it’s in both of our best interests, but especially mine, that I avoid chancing it. I’ll play nice, as required.”

Sam stays quiet, eyeing Crowley thoughtfully. Apparently the Moose needs a little more convincing.

“Consider this something like parole, for good behavior and whatnot.” At the uncertain look on Sam’s face, he adds, “I _have_ been good. You’ve seen that yourselves. Hell, I’ve been helping.”

Sam huffs a breath through his nose, straightening up. “I’ll talk to Dean.”

* * *

Cas briefly glances up from where he’s staring down at his mug of coffee thoughtfully (‘communing with his coffee’ as Dean calls it) when Sam wanders back into the kitchen. 

With research work still calling him and the specter of Dean’s anxious pestering looming, he needs to get back to it soon. Opening the fridge in search of some water, Sam goes still, staring at the tupperware containers taking up most of the fridge space; all this restless ‘avoidance cooking’ was getting a little out of hand.

“How are you feeling?” 

Sam’s still frowning at the contents of the fridge, wondering if maybe he should have another talk with Dean when he opens his mouth to respond and finds himself saying, “Like I barely survived being roadkill some days, but… good.”

Straightening up in surprise, he hastily tries to paste on a neutral expression as he turns to see Cas’ reaction. 

Cas meets his eyes with a skeptical look.

Sam breathes out a short breath through his nose and gives him a half-smile. “Honest.”

“I find that somewhat difficult to believe,” Cas replies. Which, considering their current situation not giving him any other option _but_ the truth is kinda ironic. “The trials very nearly killed you, Sam.”

“But it didn’t,” Sam counters, shutting the fridge door and leaning against it. “And sure, recovery sucks, but it’s actually _happening_. I’ve dealt with worse than this and I’ll take it for as long as I have to because I managed to do something big, Cas.”

He smiles slightly. “Finally did something _right_ for once.”

Cas’ brows draw together, staring at Sam like he can see right through him to all the rough, worn edges of himself he’s been hiding.

“You’ve done more for this world than anyone will ever know, Sam. This is just one in a list of those things.”

Sam shakes his head. “That was me fixing my mistakes. This isn’t.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment, lips pursed, before looking back down at his mug with a quiet, thoughtful hum.

Reopening the fridge and grabbing the nearest water bottle, he hears Cas say, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He turns back to Cas with a half-smile. “Thanks. Now if you could just do something about Dean’s mother-henning, things'll be perfect.”

“He can’t help worrying about you,” Cas says solemnly. Before Sam can deflect or lighten the conversation, he continues, “I understand the desire to put what’s happened behind you, but it’s not as easy for Dean. He could do very little to help you with trials, and seeing how it affected you even after they were completed…”

Cas shakes his head. “He was more scared than he’d be willing to admit. I assume it feels like he’s able to do even less now while you recover.”

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair, feeling a bit like a heel now.

“I get it. But I survived, so we’ll deal and readjust like we always do. And you’re here too, it helps.” 

Cas’ brows furrow. “I can’t do anything to help heal you, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head, setting the water bottle down on the counter and moving to grab his mug. He’d need caffeine for this conversation.

“It’s not about whether or not you can heal me, it's-” Sam sighs. He’s not sure what he’s trying to say here, honestly.

Cas cocks his head, watching Sam with patient curiosity.

Sam takes a few minutes to make his own coffee, taking the time to collect his thoughts, idly grateful for the fact that Cas isn’t accidentally prompting it out of him. By the time he takes a seat across from Cas, they’re a little more coherent.

“I don’t care if you can heal me or not, Cas, you’re not here to play holy nursemaid, or, y’know, normal nursemaid.” He takes a sip of his coffee, sighing. “It’s… our lives kinda suck, if I’m being honest. We get played crappy hands, and we always end up losing people we care about along the way. Hell, you’ve had a front-row seat to see it happen to us.”

Cas nods slowly, still looking confused. Apparently he’s not being clear enough.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is, we’re glad you’re here. Powers or no.”

Cas nods again, not really looking like he believes it. Sam’s not sure what’d convince him. He watches Cas finish off his coffee, allowing his own to cool as his mind wanders. Maybe saying it isn’t worth much if they don’t show it, and they haven’t really been doing much showing of it lately.

He nudges Cas’ ankle.

“Why don’t we head out for some fresh air?”

* * *

Sam stretches his arms out wide and behind him, groaning in satisfaction. 

“Man, it feels like forever since I got to feel the sun.” He rubs at his arms immediately after, glad of his usual layers warding off some of the late spring chill. “C’mon, let’s take a walk, just a little bit down the path and back.”

They walk peacefully in silence for a while. 

“You’ll be going back to the storeroom after this I’m guessing?” Cas asks, watching a thrush fly overhead.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, tensing up briefly in expectation of the spell going into effect. When it doesn’t, he relaxes, relieved that that was apparently enough. He’s been going over their interactions the last day or two and he thinks he’s figured out the little bit of leeway it allows and decides to take advantage of it. “Guess I’m a little restless still.”

It isn’t true, exactly. He _is_ restless, but it’s more from sitting around uselessly and not even being able to go on a damn jog while he recovers. Lying now is to preemptively cover his ass before Cas can question why. He doesn’t like having to do it, but he’s already dug himself deep enough that he’s hoping it’ll help hold back the mess once he has to climb back out.

Cas nods understandingly. Sam darts little side-glances at Cas as they keep walking, their earlier conversation still bouncing around in his head.

“What, Sam?” Cas asks, eyes still on their path.

“What?” Sam says, confused.

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sam says.

“I don’t mind,” Cas says with the tiniest hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I believe it would be hypocritical of me when your brother often tells me I stare too much. But if you want to ask me something, just ask.” 

“How’re you settling in? Y’know, to being human and all.” Sam says. He blinks in surprise before biting back a grimace. Apparently the parameters for the spell’s compulsion to kick in were broader than he’d expected.

Cas hums thoughtfully. “Well, I think.”

“You think?” Sam asks, amused.

Cas shrugs. 

“I don’t really have anyone to compare it to.” He tilts his head. “Other than Crowley I suppose, but it’s not exactly a fair comparison.”

Sam snorts. “No, yeah. Definitely not the best comparison.”

He kicks aside a pebble on the path, grasping for something else to talk about. “What do you think of Lebanon?”

Cas gives him a confused, curious look. 

Sam shrugs. Small talk was, unsurprisingly, awkward since they never actually did it before. He doesn’t really have much else he can think of talking other than ‘work’ or Dean, and both topics were technically off-limits. So.

“You’ve never really seen the place before, right? I mean, I assume you haven’t.”

Cas tilts his head thoughtfully, squinting up at a swallow that trills loudly as it flies over his head and into a nearby tree. 

“I’ve seen some of it whenever I’ve joined Dean on supply runs. It’s similar to most other small American towns I’ve seen.” Cas trails off, looking like he’s sure he’s expected to say more but unsure what else to say. Eventually, he lands on, “The burgers at the diner we visited were very good. You should have joined us. I’m sure there would have been a healthier alternative that would have been acceptable for you beyond just a salad.”

Sam scoffs. “Don’t let Dean fool you into thinking the way he eats is the way a healthy person should; I wouldn’t be surprised if his arteries get clogged before he’s fifty with how much red meat he scarfs down.”

Cas slows down a bit, turning to frown at him. “I’ve ensured the both of you are at peak health whenever I’ve healed you. Neither of you has any clogged arteries to worry about.”

Sam snorts a surprised laugh. That explains the marked lack of scars they've had over the past few years. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas nods, satisfied with the response, and picks up his pace. 

“So, nothing interesting happened while you were out?” Sam asks once he realizes Cas is apparently done talking.

Cas frowns up at him. “Like a potential case?”

“What? No.” Sam straightens up with an amused little huff. “Things aren’t exactly that exciting back in the bunker,” Sam says with a wave of his hand and a stray _‘beyond the truth compulsion stuff you’re smack dab in the middle of’_ thought tagged at the end.

Cas regards him for a moment or two, then shrugs. “Trips into town can be rather mundane, especially if we intend to keep the careful distance you’ve already established with the town’s people.”

Sam sighs. “Fair enough. All that’d ever happen is small talk.” Cas wasn’t exactly gearing up to become the local gossip when he’s struggling to trundle through it now.

They walk in peaceable silence for a few more minutes, before Cas suddenly asks, “How are you supposed to react if someone flirts with you?”

Sam blinks, straightening up. Of all the things he expected Cas to say or ask, that wasn’t even on the list. He feels the now-familiar scratching sensation start up in his throat when he doesn’t answer immediately. Clearing his throat to dispel the feeling, he says, “I uh, suppose it depends on who’s doing it and how you’d like to respond.” 

At Cas’ blank confusion, Sam clarifies, “Whether or not you want them to keep flirting with you or stop, basically. Why d’you ask?”

Cas shrugs awkwardly. 

“Dean and I went for a supply run this morning and stopped at the gas station on our way back.” He doesn’t notice Sam’s brows hiking up, intent on watching his own steps as he is. “I decided to go into the Gas-n-Sip while Dean was occupied to get some snacks Kevin had asked for and the cashier flirted with me when I went to pay for them.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Well,” Cas says hesitantly, “I assume it was a flirtation but Dean was insistent on leaving before I could find out.”

_‘I bet he was,’_ Sam thinks, biting back a smile as he asks Cas curiously, “What did she say to you?”

“The cashier was male,” Cas corrects. “He said I had eyes blue enough to drown in. I assumed he was being friendly.”

Sam snorts quietly. That was definitely a generous way of considering friendliness. An amused smile plays on his lips as he answers, “Oh yeah, he was definitely flirting.”

Cas squints at him. “How can you be sure?”

Sam’s nowhere near as much of a flirt as Dean, but the answer for a question like this comes easy to him without needing to be forced out. “A lot of how people flirt is usually just complimenting the other person.” 

Cas nods, taking it in. He squints thoughtfully. “It’s impossible for anyone to drown in my eyes.” 

Sam smothers a laugh, tilting his head back with a smirk. “He didn’t mean it literally, Cas. He was trying to tell you he’s really into you.” 

“I don’t understand why humans prefer interactions in a roundabout manner as opposed to saying things directly. It’s harder to gauge their intentions this way.”

“That’s just how us humans are,” Sam says easily. “Well, most of us.”

“I suppose.” Cas frowns.

“What is it, Cas?”

“Dean said something the other day,” Cas says slowly, frown turning thoughtful. “Based on what you’ve told me, I would assume it was a flirtation, but...”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, curiosity piqued. He’s seen his brother politely receptive to another man’s flirtations a handful of times, mostly when Dean didn’t think he was paying attention or near enough to really notice the interactions, but he’s also seen a few hilariously disastrous attempts of Dean trying to initiate the flirting himself. Not to exclude some particularly amusing attempts towards _Cas_ that Sam’s still not entirely sure were supposed to be actual fumbled attempts at flirting with the oblivious angel or Dean’s version of pulling Cas’ pigtails. Or, well, wings would probably be more accurate back then. The fact that he’d apparently tried again now and Cas _noticed_ … Oh, this would be good, he was sure of it.

“No, I must be mistaken.” Cas shakes his head. “He was likely just teasing me.”

“What?” Sam asks, knowing he’s mostly failing at not sounding ridiculously interested. “What did he say?”

Cas hesitates, eyeing Sam before finally relenting. “He said I was adorable. But,” he continues before Sam can say anything, “he was also comparing me to a grumpy cat. It makes sense that he was trying to make fun of me in some manner.” 

“Um,” Sam says, voice strangled from the attempt to not laugh. Oh, this was _gold_. This level of sappiness has been heretofore unprecedented in his brother, but hell if finding out about it doesn’t tickle Sam’s funny bone something major. He’s definitely going to store this up as blackmail material for years if only to watch Dean squirm.

Cas frowns down at his hands where he’s fidgeting with them absentmindedly. “He was frustrated afterwards,” he says, more to himself than to Sam, “I suppose he hadn’t managed the joke the way he intended.”

Sam bites down on his lip, willing himself not to laugh or blurt out _‘No, Cas, that was absolutely my brother accidentally flirting with you and regretting having a whole-ass emotion in your direction immediately afterwards.’_ He manages to succeed in keeping that thought process internal even with Cas turning to squint at him like he can read his mind.

“I am not adorable,” he tells Sam sternly, as if Sam might be mentally agreeing with Dean’s ‘joke’. Sam is perfectly aware that his best friend’s a former badass angel of the Lord, and is still reasonably a badass even if he’s no longer got angel mojo powering him. Sam is also honest with himself enough to acknowledge that said best friend _is_ occasionally adorable entirely without intending to be. He’s just managed to be the only one between him and his brother to refrain from saying it out loud. 

“Uh-huh,” Sam responds instead, proud of the fact that it comes out sounding normal. Man, he wishes he could’ve seen how that conversation played out. Probably not well, considering Dean was the one who said it, but still.

“I’m not,” Cas insists.

“Whatever you say, Cas.”

Cas narrows his eyes at Sam. He raises his hands up defensively. “Hey, I wasn’t the one who said it.”

_That_ statement manages to do something funny to Cas’ frown, though he turns away before Sam can try to guess at it.

“We should head back,” Cas says instead, not looking at Sam.

“Just a couple more minutes?” Sam asks, adding a note of plaintiveness to his voice. He’ll cave and go back if Cas insists, but it’s surprisingly nice just having a walk and talking.

Cas casts a reluctant glance in Sam’s direction. He either sees something of what Sam’s thinking on his face or maybe he feels similarly, whichever it is, Sam can see it coming when Cas caves with a small sigh.

“Alright.”

* * *

A little more reinvigorated by their afternoon walk, Sam settles down at his makeshift workstation figuring he’ll take one final crack shot at researching a solution for their feathery problem.

Unsurprisingly, considering the circumstances and the object in question, Sam doesn’t find anything on Ma’at-related potentially magically-imbued artifacts, let alone anything on how to undo said magic. Burning the feather is their last-ditch option, but he’s a little hesitant to attempt it, remembering Crowley’s throwaway comment about the risk of magical blowback. He’s honestly a little surprised Dean hasn’t pushed for it already; maybe Crowley’s words stuck with him as well.

Sam loses an hour to the effort by the end of which it’s become more of him refreshing his memory on ancient Egyptian mythology than anything else. Figuring he’s wasted enough time, he starts closing all the open tabs he has, pausing on one with an image of Ma’at standing beside other gods of the Egyptian pantheon. 

Sam takes a moment to admire the picture, pleased to realize that he can still recognize some of the more major gods on sight alone. He pauses when his eyes land on Bast. The stern expression on her catlike face niggles at a memory. The conversation with Cas earlier, still fresh in his mind, comes back with sudden sharpness and Sam has to slap a hand over his mouth to cut off the laugh that wants to escape. Cas had decided to get back to work after their walk, and humanity hasn’t dulled his hearing any; Sam’s never been bad at lying but there’s little use of hoping to get away with it right now. 

Mirth still humming in his mind, he hesitates for all of a few seconds before he picks up his phone and opens up a search page, typing in a few keywords. It doesn’t take much scrolling to find exactly what he’s looking for. Choking back another chuckle at the similarity, he saves it to his phone before opening his chat with Dean. 

There’s no new messages since the last ones he’d sent yesterday, and after that awkward little fiasco at lunch that sent Dean running, it’s a fair bet he’d be occupied with cooking up something or the other in the kitchen once he was sure it was safe to go back there. He takes another moment to appreciate his find before sending it to Dean. 

As a precaution, he makes sure his phone is set to vibrate before setting it aside. Dean’s probably gonna flip spectacularly when he sees it, but he won’t be able to do anything but angrily message Sam about it.

* * *

Dean’s in the middle of washing dishes, soaked up to his forearms in water and suds, when his phone chirps from where it’s sitting on the kitchen island. He pauses, squinting at it to see if it made any more noise but it stays silent. He darts a glance at the wall clock to check the time, it’s too soon for the alarm he’d set to ring, and Sam’s more likely to come to the kitchen directly than message him if he’s managed to dig up anything to do with this truth nonsense. Assuming that it’s probably a junk text, he shrugs it off and gets back to washing up.

He’s down to the last dishes when his phone alarm starts beeping. Wiping his hands off on the dishtowel, he quickly thumbs off the alarm and notices the message alert from Sam. The pop-up notification doesn’t show any text preview, just that it’s an image attachment. 

Confused, he opens up the chat with Sam, only to find a gif of a fuzzy grey-black cat staring down away from the camera. He downloads it out of habit more than any actual interest in seeing the gif. Once it’s done downloading, a blur of what Dean assumes is someone’s legs cross the camera, prompting the cat to look up at the camera with a frown that slowly slides into a squint. 

Mildly amused, he replays the gif a couple of times. It’s funny in a cutesy, animal-makes-human-expression kinda way and he can imagine that Sam would probably get a kick outta seeing Cas’ reaction to it. Cas was obviously the intended recipient, considering the fact that Dean already knows they have a habit of sending stuff like this to each other (from Cas’ own admission when Dean once asked him what he was smiling like a dope at his phone for). Apparently his brother’s butterfingers ended up sending it to Dean instead.

Dean moves to type up some sort of smart-ass reply to get him back to work but his fingers slip and he accidentally replays the gif instead. It takes him a moment to realize there’s something familiar about the way the cat’s squinting at the camera. He plays it again, trying to follow the thread of recollection at the back of his mind. He goes cold when his brain superimposes a memory of a squinting Cas over the squinting cat he’s staring at with growing horror.

Oh, he’s gonna _kill_ Sam. He’s gonna kick his ass first before he kills the both of them, and then move to the other side of the country for good measure.

* * *

Sam’s steps slow as he wanders into the war room. Cas, who’s been following a few feet behind him, weaves around him to take his usual seat at the map table.

The spread they walk in on for dinner isn’t entirely surprising at this point for Sam. Still, he sends a slightly incredulous glance at Dean who makes a good effort of steadfastly not looking at either of them. He’d been expecting a good ol’ fashioned brotherly throttling for the gif he sent earlier, not this. It probably isn’t going to happen while Cas is around, which is a surprisingly good motivator to make sure he’s around him more.

Either this is Dean’s attempt at an apology (to which of them Sam’s not sure) for how he’s been behaving or he’s been replaced with a Stepford clone while they weren’t looking. He’s not sure which he’d prefer.

“How is it?” Dean asks. He’s hardly touched his own plate, expression shifty as he watches them eat. Sam’s suddenly a little nervous about the delayed payback thought he brushed off earlier. 

“It’s good,” Cas says sincerely, mouth half-full. “You’re a very good cook, Dean.”

Sam watches, amused, as Dean seems torn between preening or blustering and waving off the compliment. Instead of responding, he decides on gulping down half his beer and digging into his own dinner.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Sam says, waiting for Dean to glance his way before he continues, “Crowley wanted me to ‘pass along his compliments to the chef’. Guess you’re starting to get a fanbase for your cooking.”

“Didn’t ask for one,” Dean says, mouth full and spraying crumbs across the table. Grinning at Sam’s resulting grimace, Dean asks, “What about you?”

Sam smirks. “Think I’ll leave it to Cas and Crowley. They can decide between them who gets to be club president of the ‘Dean Winchester Fanclub’.”

Cas cocks his head curiously as Dean flushes, digging back into his meal with even more vigor. 

The rest of dinner ends up similarly amusing, if mostly uneventful for Sam, in that Dean tries his best to avoid conversation with Cas while trying to make sure he doesn’t catch on to anything being off. It’s pretty unsuccessful in Sam’s opinion, but hey, whatever makes him feel better.

“Dean, are you-”

“Well, would you look at the time? I have some stuff I need to take care of before bed. Don’t forget to wash up.”

“But Dean, it’s only-” Cas trails off, Dean long since out of earshot. “...nine.”

Cas stares at the direction Dean’s taken off in with a frown. Sam tenses up nervously, figuring the jig's finally up.

Cas doesn’t say anything as he starts gathering up the dishes. Taken off-guard, it takes Sam a few seconds before he joins in, following Cas to the kitchen.

“I’ll get the rest,” Sam mutters to Cas’ back as he sets the plates down on the island while Cas starts in on washing up. He doesn’t respond.

Sam sighs quietly to himself as he heads back to the war room. Cas has clearly clued into Dean’s weird behavior, though what he makes of it is anyone's guess. 

All Sam really wants right now is to not get caught in the inevitable crossfire when things go down. It was awkward and uncomfortable enough the last few times it happened, and it doesn’t look like something that’s about to fizzle out once they finally talk.

Still, he’d like to give Dean a kick in the ass at the very least for dragging this out.

Cas is a bit of an all or nothing guy when it comes to Dean so maybe he’d do it for Sam once he finds out. He just needs a way to bribe Cas to let him watch it go down. With the affinity he’s been showing for sweet things, it’d be kinda poetic if he managed to bribe him with some of Dean’s baked goods.

* * *

“Evening, Feathers,” Crowley says, setting down his book as Castiel wanders in with dinner. He doesn’t react to the nickname with his usual frown, just stops at the door, and stares at Crowley blankly.

Crowley raises a brow. “Much as I’m sure you’d like to continue appreciating my visage, I’m rather certain that’s not why you’re here.”

Castiel blinks.

“Dinner?” Crowley prompts. Castiel looks down at the plate in his hand as if seeing it for the first time.

Crowley eyes him curiously. “What’s got your feathers ruffled today?”

That finally merits a frown.

He eyes Crowley for a long moment before conceding with obvious reluctance. “Dean’s been acting strange.”

The elder Winchester’s awkwardness and discomfort from the previous day come to mind immediately. It makes sense that he’s still uncomfortable with coming to Crowley for advice or aid of any kind, but for Castiel to be experiencing abnormal behavior as well? Color him curious.

“Unfortunate,” Crowley says dryly. He raises a hand out expectantly. “Now, if you please, I’d like to have my dinner, which is already rather late might I add, instead of waiting for your befuddlement to abate.” 

He hands it over, watching Crowley narrowly as he digs in.

“You haven’t noticed anything different about him?”

Crowley opens his mouth, intending to deflect and needle Castiel instead as he normally would, but what comes out instead is, “I have.”

Crowley just barely manages to hide his surprise at his own words, just as Castiel straightens up, staring at him expectantly.

It _couldn’t_ be. Could it?

“Your standards for his behavior are rather different from mine, I reckon,” he says instead of elaborating. His mind quickly runs through what he gleaned from the brothers in their previous conversations; if he’s right, Castiel is utterly unaware of being under the spell the others are so keen to avoid. The more pertinent question here is: can he gain anything from enlightening the fallen angel of his current predicament?

No, better to deflect instead of risking being compelled to divulge more than he’d like. Let the Winchesters continue to deal with it.

“Squirrel’s got no reason to play niceties with me. You on the other hand,” he hums, “maybe your relationship with your boyfriend’s finally reaching its end.”

Castiel’s jaw tightens.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Mmm, I’m sure you wish he was though. After all you’ve done for him, a little recip-”

“Enough,” Castiel cuts in sharply.

“Food for thought,” Crowley says with a shrug, going back to his dinner. He looks back up just in time to see the door closing.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam’s so focused on what he’s reading that he barely registers Cas asking a question, let alone notices himself muttering an answer. He blinks up from his laptop in confusion. “Sorry, what?”

“I was wondering why Dean wasn’t assisting today either. You said something about him still being busy.”

Sam rubs at his forehead with a sigh. “Right. Spring cleaning or something. I didn’t ask.”

_‘He’s actually busy hiding from you, and probably his feelings too,’_ Sam mentally corrects, before forcing himself to move his thoughts in another direction in case Cas decided to continue this vein of conversation. They’re onto day five now, and the spell still hasn't worn off yet. Things are bound to come to a head eventually, and he _really_ doesn’t want to be somehow caught in the middle when it does. 

He opens his mouth, figuring he’d redirect the conversation to safer topics, then frowns, taking Cas in.

“You okay?”

Cas straightens the stack of books in his grip, tilting his head in a confused frown. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam’s lips purse. “You just seem kinda off today.”

Cas shrugs a little jerkily, not meeting Sam’s eyes as he sets the books down.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a break for a little while.”

He wanders off before Sam can answer.

Sam frowns. Something was going on with Cas.

* * *

Kevin rubs a hand tiredly down his face as he wanders down the hall with only one thing on his mind: coffee.

His sleep cycle was already long shot to hell for months now, but moving into an underground bunker screwed with his perception of night and day to a new level. Time was just an illusion now. Hell, maybe all of this is some particularly horrendous fever dream because none of the last year and a half feels any more real now than it did living through it.

If he could just find the control gear to switch this into a lucid dream, he could flip this into something that was easier to wrap his head around.

He stops abruptly as he enters the kitchen, staring around in confusion. There’s a casserole dish of something or other cooling on top of the stove, and a giant closed pot of something cooking away on the burner beside it. Across from it, the kitchen island is practically covered in a mess of ingredients and utensils. 

Standing right in the middle of the cooking bubble is Dean, mixing something in a bowl, focused entirely on it enough that he doesn’t seem to have noticed Kevin. This is a new, mundane level of weird and another point to the fever dream theory.

His stomach gurgles quietly, abruptly reminding him that he hasn’t eaten more than a large packet of Cheetos and a can of energy drink in the past… he’s gonna assume somewhere between four to six hours. Maybe longer since he’s mostly sure he conked out for a brief nap in between. 

“…Are we celebrating something?” Kevin asks, a mixture of confusion and suspicion as he grips his thermos tighter. He’s pretty sure he’s only been holed up in his room for a day or two, three tops while recovering from his hangover. Sure he hasn’t been keeping track of the days before that, but it should still only be May, probably. 

Abruptly he wonders if there’s a small possibility he’s grossly underestimating his capability to survive mostly on energy drinks and snack foods until someone remembers to feed him. Maybe it’s a new prophet ability.

“No,” Dean says, only briefly glancing up at him before focusing back on his work. Kevin’s about to protest that Dean can’t know whether he just gained a new superpower or not before he realizes that Dean can’t read his mind and only answered the question he actually asked.

He really needs coffee.

“Okay. Are we having… friends over?” He asks cautiously, slowly scuttling over to the coffee machine like he’s trying to make sure Dean doesn’t notice. Of course, Dean apparently hadn’t bothered to make a fresh batch of coffee while he’s on whatever weird cooking spree he’s on, so Kevin has to start up a pot himself.

“No,” Dean replies shortly. He mutters something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like _‘most of ‘em are dead anyway’_. Which does nothing to comfort Kevin about his own lifespan. But, more importantly right now, he needs his coffee.

He fidgets with his empty thermos as he watches Dean scoop up some dough while the coffee percolates, making little round balls and placing them on a baking tray he hadn’t noticed. “Is that- are you making cookies?”

“You got something against ‘em?”

“Uh-” Kevin says smartly. “No?”

Dean snorts and doesn’t say anything else.

Kevin’s no less baffled than he was a few minutes ago, he’s not sure if the coffee will make things make more or less sense at this point. There’s always the possibility that Dean’s been possessed by the spirit of Martha Stewart. Was she still alive? Y’know what, it doesn’t matter.

Silence seems like the safest bet until he can get his coffee and leave, but that idea gets nixed when his stomach lets out a loud growl, making it known that it doesn’t like to be ignored. Dean pauses in his dough rolling to glance up at him. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Uh, this morning, I guess?”

Dean snorts, expression disbelieving. “When’s the last time you ate _actual_ food?”

Kevin bristles a little at that; Cheetos _are_ food, just really, really processed food. Also, if that doesn’t count, then he doesn't want to admit that he isn't entirely sure when the last time was. They’d had peanuts and nachos at the bar, that counted as actual food, right?

Dean seems to read something in the silence or in his expression and rolls his eyes, angling his head towards the fridge. “The casserole’s still pretty hot if you wanna risk it; otherwise there’s leftovers in the fridge. Take your pick.”

Hesitantly, like he half-expects Dean to try something, he edges slowly over to the stove, ensnared by the smell of cheesy goodness wafting from it.

“Uh-uh,” Dean tuts, calling Kevin’s attention hesitantly back from the mouthwatering dish before him. “Take a plate, kid.”

Coloring slightly at the reminder, he grabs up a plate and utensils from the dryer rack before helping himself to a hefty serving of cheesy, chicken-y goodness.

“Good?” Dean asks, loading up a tray into the oven.

Kevin grunts agreeably, mouth full. God, he forgot how good real food could be. Swallowing it down, he eyes Dean. “So, any reason for all… this?” He waves his hand vaguely to encompass the entire kitchen. “Not that I’m complaining,” he adds hastily, as Dean glances up at him.

Dean grunts. “Just enjoy the food.”

For a guy who’s happily survived on frozen food and takeout and had no qualms about the people around him doing the same (Kevin’s own diet had suffered as much as other college-aged kids’ would, minus the college part), this sudden explosion of cooking is weird, to put it mildly. 

“Is Crowley dead?” At Dean’s bewildered look, which pretty much confirms that Crowley is still _not_ dead, he rephrases, “Is he finally gone? I can’t think of anything else that’s got you doing all this other than gearing up to celebrate something.”

Dean sighs. “No. We’re working on it.”

"You could just kill him," Kevin suggests. It’s the most obvious solution, after all.

Dean snorts. "Try running it by Sam."

Kevin rolls his eyes. "Didn't realize this needed to be voted on. He's _killed_ people."

Dean sighs, palms pressed against the counter as he considers Kevin.

"I ain't got anything against wiping my hands off of the guy, believe me."

"So what's stopping you? Cuz if it's _guilt_ ," he says it in a tone of voice that implies he can't understand why, "then I'll do it."

"Woah there, killer," Dean says, coolly amused.

Kevin's lips press together thinly. "Crowley's royally fucked up my life. I can't ever pretend to go back to normal after all that. And you guys want to let him live."

Dean doesn't say anything.

Kevin huffs an irritated breath through his nose. Their 'friendship' has mostly been one of necessity, so he's not sure what he expected. He decides to change tracks.

"Castiel can't be too pleased about the fact that he's still here. Didn't Crowley try to kill him?"

Dean's eyes flash up to meet his. He’d struck a nerve, _good_.

Dean’s jaw works as he glances away.

When he doesn’t respond, Kevin decides that maybe it’s time for an ultimatum.

“Either he leaves or I do.”

Admittedly, it’s not so much an ultimatum as it is an inevitability. He might’ve lost the possibility of pretending he lives in a normal world and any hopes of going back to the life he had before all this, but the one he’s in now was never going to be one he’d put down roots in.

Now that Heaven and Hell were closed the Winchesters didn’t really need him around anyway.

“And where would you go?” Dean asks skeptically.

“I survived just fine without either of you, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll manage.”

Dean glances away, something almost guilty flickering across his expression. “I’ll talk to Sam. Just give us a couple more days.”

Kevin grunts, slowly going back to his food.

* * *

Much fuller, but still off-balance from the weird, somewhat frustrating interaction in the kitchen, a distracted Kevin ends up walking face-first into the surprisingly firm chest of the resident angel. Sorry, ex-angel.

“Uh, hey Cas,” Kevin says, taking a few steps backward. “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright. Have you seen Dean?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” Kevin says immediately. Cas swiftly side-steps around him and heads down the hall, reluctantly stopping when Kevin calls after him. “He seems like he’s in a mood. Probably doesn’t want any company right now, Cas.”

Cas makes a face at that which Kevin decides to interpret as a cross between annoyed, confused, and vaguely offended that Kevin decides to lump him in with what would be considered normal company for Dean. Or it could be something else entirely; dude’s face is hard to read on a good day.

Honestly, he’s not even sure why he’s bothering getting in the middle of this. Whatever’s set Dean on his hot and cold mood has nothing to do with him, and it’s not like Kevin is friends with Cas by any stretch of the term.

“Oh,” Castiel says. He doesn’t look or sound greatly upset, but Kevin can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s kicked a puppy while wearing a steel-toed boot. Great, now he feels guilty.

“You could… check on him later?” He suggests, feeling a bit like a mediator in an uncomfortably awkward marriage counseling session. He did not sign up for this shit. 

Castiel huffs a sigh and nods. “I was hoping to get some coffee. Later, I suppose.”

Kevin surreptitiously hides his flask behind his back. It’s his only ticket of staying out of this weirdness in the foreseeable future.

“You doing ok?” he asks. Not that he normally would, but it’s more than a little weird to see the guy looking as drawn and wan as he does now. He hasn’t managed to look like this the few times Kevin’s stumbled out of his room in the middle of the night only to bump into the guy, so yeah, it feels more than a little strange to try and ignore it.

“Yes,” Castiel says immediately. He sighs. “No. I don’t know.”

Kevin raises a brow. “Which is it?”

Castiel shrugs. Right, he was still kinda new to the human emotions crap.

With the feeling that he was probably going to regret this, he asks, “You… wanna talk about it?”

Castiel’s lips purse. “I can’t imagine it’ll do much good.”

Kevin shrugs. If he doesn’t want to talk, he’s fine with it. He’d made the offer.

“They say bottling stuff up ain’t good for you, but what do I know, these guys have corked up enough feelings that’d make a volcano erupt.”

That manages to tease a ghost of a smile out of Castiel.

Still keeping his flask hidden, he reaches out his free hand to pat Castiel’s shoulder awkwardly. “Good luck with figuring out… whatever you’re trying to figure out.”

* * *

Sam leaves Cas be for a while once he returns, figuring he’d give the guy some space. Dean hasn’t blown his phone up with angry texts yet, so it’s safe to assume Cas hadn’t gone searching for him.

When he passes by Cas’ little work corner an hour or so later, he stills, watching him pull things off the shelf at random, gaze distant as he works. 

“Hey,” he calls out gently, not wanting to freak Cas out. Cas jolts anyway, fumbling the book in his hand before it slips out of his grasp and lands a few feet away with a dull _thump_ , sending up a small cloud of dust motes flying.

Sam reaches for it at the same time Cas does, managing to grab it first. He brushes off the cover before handing it back to Cas, who takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Everything alright? You seemed kinda out of it just now, earlier too.”

Cas turns around, setting the book down on a growing stack nearby that’s almost up to his knees. 

“It’s very quiet in here. I suppose I got lost in my own thoughts.”

Sam stares at him thoughtfully. Maybe working alone in silence was starting to get to the guy, for all he knew. Not that Cas has ever been chatty for as long as Sam’s known him, but he can get how Dean’s constant commentary can become soothing background noise. If Dean’s side of things is anything to go by, then Cas must’ve been dealing with his cold shoulder for a while now.

Maybe he’s overthinking it, but it feels like more than just that.

“Y’know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Cas’ lips twitch up in a brief but real smile, something almost fond in his expression if Sam has to guess. “It’s not worth troubling you.”

“Why don’t you let me decide that?”

Cas sighs and finally relents. “I didn’t sleep that well last night. It’s not a big deal.”

Sam reads between the lines easily enough. Nightmares aren’t new to him, but they would be to Cas. He hadn’t thought too much on it when he found Cas already busy at work in the storeroom before he got there; now though, Sam sees it as the attempt for a distraction that it is. Not that it seems to be helping.

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam offers.

Cas shakes his head. “Not particularly. I understand it helps but I’d rather not dwell on it too much if it’s all the same to you.”

Sam nods agreeably. “I’m here if you ever change your mind.”

Cas smiles at that, a little more sturdy than last time. “Thank you, Sam.”

He shrugs. “It’s what friends do.”

* * *

For all that Castiel hadn’t actually talked about anything directly, the brief conversation with Sam helps improve his mood. 

He still finds that he rather misses Dean’s presence though. Not that Dean has been missing, though Castiel has mostly only seen him in passing over the last few days, their excursions into town notwithstanding. But it isn’t quite the same when Dean is busy with his own tasks, be it cleaning up around the bunker, working on the Impala, or cooking, or any other of the plethora of tasks keeping him so well occupied; Castiel isn’t able to be involved in those let alone be nearby as a bystander to learn if nothing else, what with the help he’d promised Sam.

He wonders if Sam feels similarly bereft, having grown up in close proximity to Dean for most of his life. Sam’s offer to talk had extended beyond the talk of ill dreams, so it feels worth broaching.

Of course, it would require some tact.

Sam’s in the middle of flipping through the pages of a journal when Castiel wanders up to him, setting down the box of case files he’d found.

“Thanks,” Sam says idly, not looking up.

“Reorganizing this room is taking longer than anticipated,” Castiel starts. Sam hums agreeably. 

“I believe we’d been doing rather well with Dean’s aid initially. I didn’t realize he would be so busy as he is with household work,” Castiel says offhandedly. “I understand the bunker is significantly larger than an average home, of course, but I don’t recall him being anywhere near as busy when you were unwell.”

Sam sighs. “Dean’s not here because he realized he’s allergic to anything that has to do with organization and paperwork.”

Castiel blinks, then frowns. “You’re being facetious.”

Sam huffs, smirking slightly. “Yeah. He’s useless with research work when he’s dealing with things, so he does other stuff instead.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “What do you mean, dealing with things?”

“Well, he’s stress cooking,” Sam says, eyes widening slightly before his jaw snaps shut. “Forget I said that.”

Castiel squints at him. Sam straightens up uncomfortably under the look. Something was going on here, leaving Castiel distinctly out of the loop.

He decides to test a theory that’s beginning to take shape in his mind. “Is something compelling you to speak your mind?”

Sam’s grimace at that seems to confirm it. “Yes and no,” he says slowly, looking hesitant to say more. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

Castiel’s eyes narrow, reading between the lines. “The truth then.”

Sam sighs, relaxing slightly. “Same difference it turns out.”

A dozen thoughts chase each other around his mind, but one question stands out louder than the rest. “How long?”

“A couple days,” Sam admits, resigned. He clears his throat again, seeming to shake off a cough. “About five days, we think.”

“Dean knows then,” Castiel says flatly, more statement than question.

Sam stays quiet, lips pressed thin. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

It explains a lot about the last few days. He’d been convincing himself that he was reading too much into things, but apparently he’d been reading a few chapters behind everyone else.

For all the lingering awkwardness that remained between them, he’d thought he and Dean had come to some sort of peaceful middle-ground now that they were on something of equal footing. That maybe, undeserving as he was of it, he’d been forgiven for his injudicious actions. For Dean to be so wary of him now… apparently he’d been deluding himself.

He needs to be certain though, and as much as it hurts, he makes himself ask, “Why is Dean stress cooking?”

Sam’s eyes widen before he shakes his head, clenching his jaw. His expression turns pained but he resolutely keeps his mouth shut.

“Sam,” Castiel says quietly. 

Sam’s expression screws up tighter before he blurts out, “Because he’s trying to avoid you.” He slaps a hand over his mouth. 

Castiel looks down with a frown. There it is.

“Look, that’s not- I didn’t mean it like that. I just-” Sam flounders. “Dean has reasons for it, mostly stupid, but I get them. I really wish I could explain-”

“Is that why you’ve been keeping me so busy lately?” Cas interrupts, voice low. “Because he asked you to?”

Sam hesitates even though the act clearly causes him some discomfort. Castiel waits, refraining from prompting the answer, his last attempt had seemed to make things worse. Sam would have to answer eventually. 

“Yeah.”

“I see,” Castiel replies, mostly to the floor. He needs- he needs space, to think, or what he doesn’t know yet. He takes a few steps backwards, bumping into the shelf behind him. Sam winces. “Wait, Cas-”

“If you have no further need of me, Sam, I’d like to go back to my room. Since Dean does not wish to see me, I won’t trouble him with my presence.”

“I-” Sam sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Sam doesn’t go to Dean immediately after Cas leaves. He’s almost tempted not to go at all. Let Dean suffer for his own stupid decisions for once if Cas decides to talk to him.

He’s not sure what Cas is going to do if he _does_ talk to Dean. He’s not rash, exactly, but Sam hasn’t forgotten the almost palpable chill in the room the day after he’d appeared in front of their car bleeding and badly injured, cold enough that even Cas couldn’t miss it. He’d disappeared later the same day, and neither of them had even known why until Cas was already elbow-deep in the angel trials. He’s not sure what Cas might do this time, but he isn’t eager to find out.

Dean had had days to seethe in his anger back then, likely building up since before whatever went down in the crypt. Sam still doesn’t know the details. He can’t imagine that they’d actually talked it out while Sam had been practically comatose during the earlier stages of his recovery; knowing his brother, he’d likely cheaply wallpapered over it and hoped it stuck.

He heads for the kitchen, slowing slightly as he passes by Cas’ room, door firmly shut, thin slats of light escaping the vent near its base confirming the presence of its occupant.

Sam sighs. Whatever the fallout is going to be, he’s going to try and mitigate it if he can.

He slows when he reaches the kitchen, looming in the entryway, watching Dean prod at something on the stove while the nearby radio belts out some vaguely familiar-sounding rock song. Sam surveys the now-familiar sight of the mess of ingredients scattered around the kitchen with a frown.

“How long are you planning to hide out in here like this?” 

Dean turns around with a curse, banging his elbow on the counter in the process. He swears, cradling his elbow. “Doesn’t anyone around here know how to enter a fucking room politely?”

“Cas caught on to the fact that you’re avoiding him like he has the Black Plague,” Sam says, stepping down into the kitchen. He stops a few feet short of the ingredient-laden island and crosses his arms. 

Dean stiffens up at the news, grip tightening on his elbow.

“Don’t worry,” Sam says sarcastically, “he took it well enough to head back to his room.”

Dean works his jaw, glaring down at the countertop.

Sam huffs an irritated breath through his nose. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? What exactly are you afraid of accidentally telling him?”

“None of your damn business,” Dean bites out, grabbing up the knife and the nearest vegetable, and starts chopping.

“It became my damn business when you asked me to keep him busy while you’re doing whatever the hell you’re doing now,” Sam retorts. “Would it kill you to just talk to him? At least tell him he hasn’t monumentally screwed up somehow because I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s done something to make you mad at him.”

Instead of acknowledging any of that, Dean retorts, “You found a solution yet?”

“There’s no solution to be found because there isn’t any _lore_ on it, because it’s _not_ Ma’at’s actual feather,” Sam says, tone turning exasperated. “No amount of digging online’s gonna get us a solution because the internet hasn’t become a how-to guide on dealing with cursed knock-offs yet.” 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “I won’t pretend I know what’s going on in your head anymore. But I’m not going to let you pretend like you aren’t hurting him, because whatever he thinks is going on right now, it’s not good.”

Dean doesn’t look up, chopping more aggressively.

Sam runs a frustrated hand through his hair. 

“Look, if it’s about your friggin _feelings_ or whatever,” Dean stiffens up but Sam ignores it, not allowing himself to lose steam, “if you’re hiding from him because you’re afraid of how he’ll react, then you’ve got to be the blindest person I know. He looks at you like you’re shitting rainbows and puking up stars. Like, even through all the shit we’ve faced these last few years, you’re the best thing to happen to him. It’s-” Sam breaks off with a frustrated noise. He doesn’t say _‘the way I used to look at Jess.’_

Instead, he says, “Just… stop freezing him out. Please.”

Dean doesn’t respond, staring down intently at the chopping board as if the vegetables on it might vanish the second he looks away.

Sam sighs. Well, at least he tried. 

* * *

He’s in a sour enough mood afterwards that he gives up on the rest of the day as a lost cause and heads back to his room.

He’s trying and failing to immerse himself in one of the historical journals he snagged from the storeroom a few days ago when there’s a soft knock at his door.

Frowning in confusion, he sets the book aside and goes to answer the door. He blinks in surprise when he sees Cas on the other side.

“Cas, hey,” Sam says softly.

“Sam,” Cas replies shortly. Sam winces slightly at the tone. Didn’t sound like he’d cooled down much in the last hour or so. Not that Sam could blame him.

“Come in,” Sam says, moving aside to let him in. Cas does, idly glancing around at the room as Sam closed the door behind him. It’s about as sparsely decorated as the other rooms in the bunker, so there’s not much to see. Sam knows an avoidance tactic when he sees one.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were mad, y’know,” Sam says, leaning against the door and watching Cas’ back. He watches Cas’ shoulders rise and fall as he takes a measured breath. “Pretty sure Dean and I deserve it.”

“I’m-” Cas cuts himself off. “I don’t know what I feel.”

Upset, if Sam had to wager. Hurt, probably confused and a little betrayed. He doesn’t offer any of those up to Cas, waiting silently in case he wants to say something more. When he doesn’t, Sam asks, “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Cas shakes his head first, then nods a second later.

“Why?”

Sam reflexively braces himself at the question, momentarily surprised when the clawing-scratching sensation doesn’t start up. Either the question is too vague or the effects are finally starting to wear off. 

“Why didn’t I tell you?” Sam asks, figuring that’s what Cas is trying to get at.

Cas gives a stiff nod.

“I don’t really have a good answer for that,” Sam admits. “I didn’t even know about it till Dean told me. I didn’t entirely believe him at first, and by the time we confirmed it we’d already been dragging it out.”

When Cas stays quiet, he asks, “I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Dean yet?”

Cas gives a short, sharp shake of his head.

“Are you going to?” 

Cas doesn’t respond. 

“I’m not asking to convince you not to. It’s-” Sam sighs. “Maybe this is long overdue. He might freak out and get mad but- I need you to understand that whatever stupid shit he says, he doesn’t want you gone. Neither do I, if that matters any.”

Cas tilts his head, slanting a glance at Sam. His expression is tight, like he’s trying to keep it under control, but Sam can see beneath it enough to the vulnerability he’s trying to hide.

“I’m not mad at you, for any of the things that’ve happened,” Sam says, feeling like he needs to. “I- I think I understand, maybe even better than Dean, why you did the things you had to.” He hesitates, but the next part’s as important to acknowledge as the rest. “You kept trying to make up for it too, didn’t you?”

Cas blinks, glancing away. “Not very well,” he admits, voice wavering slightly.

Sam smiles faintly. “Welcome to the family.”

That manages to tease a weak little chuckle out of him, strengthening Sam’s smile in turn. He steps forward, reaching out to give Cas’ shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“Whatever you’re gonna do after this, I’ve got your back.”

* * *

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, standing in the kitchen entryway.

Dean flinches like he’d shouted instead, going stiff before seeming to force himself to relax. A small part of Castiel’s mind recognizes the action as an echo he hadn’t quite noticed happening over and over the last few days. He feels an ache he can’t quite understand at the realization.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, focusing intently on the ingredients he’s measuring and pouring into a bowl. He continues in a forced, jovial tone, “It’s still too early for lunch, man-”

“I’m not here for food.”

“Well, I’m sorta in the middle of something here, so-”

“Enough,” Castiel cuts him off, brows drawn together. “Please, just stop pretending things are fine.”

Dean goes still, any hints of false cheerfulness vanishing like it had never been there. His jaw works stiffly. “Don’t really feel like talking, Cas.”

Castiel nods, feeling a sort of humorless amusement at the statement. He watches Dean relax infinitesimally at the gesture.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Dean’s eyes dart up then, meeting his with wary confusion. “What for?”

_‘For everything,’_ Castiel thinks. It’s liable to go down as well as the first time he’d tried that apology. They haven’t talked about it since, but he’s known Dean to hold onto his grievances before. He just hopes that maybe this time he’ll be allowed to do some penance.

“For whatever I’ve done recently to upset you and make you feel the need to avoid me. I’m still learning about human boundaries, but clearly I’ve overstepped something unawares and made you uncomfortable,” he says, not meeting Dean’s eyes. 

No matter how hard he tries, he still can’t understand the nuances of things that make humans ashamed or uncomfortable. Regardless, he’s been careful, he thought; he knows Dean better than other humans, has learned his limits and even his contradictions over the years.

The newly enforced distance between them is discomforting, to say the least. It struck differently from similar times past. Maybe the feelings were magnified in the empty chasm inside him from the loss of his connection to his siblings, to Heaven. Maybe this was just how strongly humans felt things. 

He hadn’t realized he could still feel alone even while near people he cared about.

“That’s not-” Dean cuts himself off. “Listen, you don’t want to have this conversation right now.” 

Castiel’s brows furrow, feeling confused and irritated now. Dean _is_ right, he doesn’t want to have this conversation, now or in the future. But he’s grown tired of the distance. Putting it off and waiting isn’t going to make this any less painful. “If not now, then when?”

He only realizes his mistake when he catches the panicked widening of Dean’s eyes.

He’d already opened his mouth to interrupt Castiel, so the answer comes immediately. “When I’m not being _made_ to answer things I don’t want to.”

Dean shuts his mouth with an audible _click_. 

“Shit. That’s not what I- damn it, Cas.”

“You’re being forced to be honest right now,” Castiel says. “I can’t imagine that wasn’t what you truly meant.”

Dean goes pale.

“Sam told you,” he grits out.

Castiel shakes his head. He isn’t about to let Dean unnecessarily redirect his anger onto Sam. “He was reluctant to talk about it but I inevitably gleaned some details from him. It wasn’t difficult to put it all together after that.”

Dean’s arms cross, expression closing off. “So you get why I don’t really feel like talkin’ to you right now?”

“I understand, but-”

“No. No buts.”

Castiel feels his own jaw tighten painfully as his frustration starts to simmer hotter. 

“Now that I know about the spell I’m under, I’ll be more careful. If you’d _tell_ me what I’ve done that’s driven you to keep avoiding me, I could try and make amends-” Castiel pauses, watching as horror flashes through Dean’s eyes, his jaw clenching tight. It takes a few seconds to realize he must have prompted the truth compulsion to action once again. 

“It’s not just about you. I’ve got shit I don’t want to air out like this, and if you care about our friendship at all, you won’t push it,” Dean says through tightly clenched teeth before Castiel can apologize. The tightness in his face relaxes slightly, likely from the compulsion accepting his answer.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the kitchen, Dean’s last statement hanging in the air. Castiel’s shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Castiel says sincerely and a little awkwardly, trying to meet Dean’s eyes. His expression is wary still, even as his arms uncross, his closed fists resting against the counter. 

Castiel takes a breath. 

“I’m… aware that I’ve not been the best of friends to you, or much of one really. I realize I’ve been preoccupied with adjusting to being human, but I had hoped that you would talk to me if something were troubling you.”

Dean watches him quietly, lips pursed. “Not something you can fix, buddy.”

“I’d like to try.”

Dean shakes his head. “I mean it, Cas. It’s-” he puffs out a gust of breath, “shit I’ll deal with. It’ll go away on its own.”

He doesn’t look like he believes his own words.

“I feel… dissatisfied leaving things like this.”

Dean snorts quietly, half-rolling his eyes. “Think Sam’s the one that said compromise is when both sides aren’t happy.”

“That doesn’t sound very effective.”

Dean shrugs.

He watches Castiel open and close his mouth uselessly, brow raised. “Cat got your tongue?”

“It’s surprisingly difficult trying to speak without asking a question. This spell is vexing.”

Dean snorts. “Try putting yourself in my shoes this past week.”

“I wouldn’t be avoiding you if I were in your place,” Castiel blurts out. 

Dean gives him a warning glance. Castiel decides not to heed it. “Even if you say it’s more complicated than any issues you have with me, clearly some of those exist.”

“And you wanna get into that _now_?” Dean asks, voice even, eyes cold.

Castiel shrugs. Whatever it took for things to get better.

Dean huffs, glancing away as he mutters quietly to himself, “Dunno if this is worse than actual therapy.”

He doesn’t leave or bluster and kick Castiel out of the kitchen, and that’s as much of an allowance as he can hope to receive.

“You’re still mad at me. About before, with the angel tablet.” Castiel’s eyes rove over Dean’s face, trying to read into what he must be thinking.

There’s a sharp look in Dean’s eyes when he responds. “You tell me how you’d feel if I pulled a stunt like that on you. Oh, guess what,” he says sarcastically, “I _wouldn’t_.”

Castiel glances down at the tiled floor guiltily.

Dean sighs loudly. “I’m over it, alright?” Catching Castiel’s doubtful look, Dean crosses his arms and glares. “What d’you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. He knows it’s too much to expect forgiveness for his actions when he himself doesn’t feel deserving of it. Remembering Dean’s anger back then, he decides the least he deserves is an explanation. Whether it will make him feel better after isn’t important.

He plucks at the sleeves of the long-sleeved henley he’s wearing, staring at the hems as it stretches with the light tugs. “I couldn’t risk Naomi taking control again and trying to hurt you or Sam if I stayed. She’d already made me kill you hundreds of times before-”

“What?” Dean says, loudly. Castiel looks up at the interruption, taking in the confusion on his features. “I dunno what she did playing with your noggin, Cas, but you never killed me.”

The memories of those ‘trial runs’ churn Castiel’s stomach unpleasantly, the faces of those dead puppets superimposing over the present Dean’s face far too easily, making Castiel look away. “She made facsimiles of you and had me… practice, until she was sure I could kill you without hesitation.”

Dean swears colorfully. 

“I was afraid,” he admits quietly, “of what she might try. Whether I’d be able to stop it if there was a next time. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face angrily. “What I wouldn’t give to stab an angel blade right in her face. That’s beyond fucking twisted. Shit, Cas.”

When he meets Castiel’s eyes then, though his expression looks a little lost, it feels like some of the distance between them has lessened.

* * *

“Fuck,” Dean swears quietly under his breath. Cas glances up at him curiously.

He blows out a gust of breath. _‘No other way but through, huh?’_

“Fuck,” he says again, louder this time. “Fine. Ask me.”

Cas startles in surprise before his brows furrow together.

Dean waves his hand impatiently in Cas’ direction, not quite meeting his eyes. “You heard me. You’ve got your friggin permission, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what you end up hearing.”

Cas just stares at him for a long moment. Uncertainly, he finally asks, “Was this why you were avoiding me?”

“No,” Dean says, still not meeting his eyes. “Figured it was inevitable that I’d end up saying something that would ruin what we’ve got going now or chase you off. Maybe both.”

“After everything we’ve faced over the past few years, I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “You’ve got no idea what I might say.”

Cas raises his brows a bit, smiling slightly. It’s an expression almost eerily similar to Sam’s.

“Then tell me.”

It’s a gentle statement, not a demand, but it’s still enough for Dean to feel the touch of the spell at his throat as he swallows.

“I needed space,” he admits, looking off to the left of Cas. “It’s not like I’ve been spending all this time being mad at you for that shit. Like I said, I'm over it."

Dean sighs, half-rolling his eyes. "Bout as over it as I can get." 

He shrugs a little nervously. He’s admitted enough that the spell isn’t pushing for more, but it’s not like he can avoid this conversation anymore, so he figures he’ll take what he can get to answer some shit on his own terms. “There’s… things I didn’t want to think about or talk about, stuff that’s harder to ignore when you’re walking around with that spell on you.”

Even though Dean’s given him blanket permission to ask whatever he wants, he’s still obviously hesitant at crossing a limit. “Like what?” 

Dean shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He clears his throat against the grabbing, choking feeling of the spell wrapping around his throat and sighs, frustrated.

“Like how you were planning to lock the pearly gates behind you and your siblings and now you’re stuck here instead, and human to boot. That was gonna be a _delightful_ conversation,” he says sarcastically.

Cas frowns. “That wasn’t what I was planning.”

Dean falters, meeting Cas’ eyes. “What?”

“I wasn’t planning on staying in Heaven.” 

“You- but- you _said_ you were. You knew they’d off you for locking them up there.”

Cas nods. “If they caught me before the spell was complete, yes. I’d planned to stay behind on Earth, if I could.”

“ _Since when?_ ” Dean asks loudly.

“Since Metatron told me about the trials.” 

“Why?” he asks, before he realizes he sounds like an asshole. _‘Why stay on Earth where you’ve got a better chance of staying alive instead of in Heaven where you’ve decided your chances of dying are guaranteed?_ _Seriously, Dean.’_

“I mean-” Dean huffs, waving a hand through the air agitatedly. “Okay, I don’t know what I meant.”

Cas’ expression clears up then, like he’s figured out what Dean must’ve been thinking even if he doesn’t quite understand it.

“You thought I was leaving for good.” Cas continues staring at him, long enough that it starts to make Dean uncomfortable. “Did you want me to?”

“No!” Dean says, immediately getting flustered by his own vehemence. He glances away, shoulders bunching up to his ears. In an attempt to deflect, he says, “Pretty sure being human wasn’t part of the plan.”

“It wasn’t,” Cas agrees. “But I don’t regret it.”

Dean scoffs, shoulders dropping, unable to stop himself from briefly darting a glance at Cas. “Seriously? I ain’t exactly a fan of your brothers, but being a human isn’t really a good trade-off for everything you gave up.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment.

“I don’t know how to explain it, let alone in a way that you’ll believe, but I understood all the implications of my choice when I made it.” Like he feels the need to clarify, Cas adds, “It wasn’t under duress or desperation.”

Dean chews at his lip. He wants to take Cas’ words at face value, but it’s hard to, especially after all the time he’s been convincing himself that Cas’ hand was forced somehow, or that they’d stripped him of his grace as some kind of punishment. The fact that Cas _chose_ this, to live out the rest of his days as a human, is too fantastically ridiculous to wrap his head around.

Cas sighs like he can tell what Dean’s thinking. 

“I’d make the same choice again if I had to.” His brows furrow slightly. “The only thing I would change is all the trouble I ended up bringing to you as a result.”

Before Dean can try to parse what he’s getting at or think to ask, Cas shakes his head. “What do you want, Dean?” 

He sounds like he honestly doesn’t know. And why would he?

Caught off-guard, he blurts out, “You,” before immediately squeezing his eyes shut.

When Cas doesn’t say anything for a long minute, he hesitantly squints his eyes open to see his reaction. Whatever he was expecting, the confused, vaguely uncomprehending expression isn’t it.

There’s a swooping mix of relief and dismay in his gut at the realization that maybe he can spin this somehow, reroute this conversation before it crashes and burns their friendship with it.

“I know I’ve been kind of an ass about it lately, but it’s been good to have you stick around. Sam’s obviously happy and, y’know, we can make another go at training you up to be a hunter if you want-”

Cas interrupts with a confused, “That doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding me, I’ve ‘stuck around’.”

_‘How long before you decide it’s time to leave?’_ his brain responds. Instead of saying that out loud, Dean shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna assume, and it’s five kinds of clingy dumbass that I ain’t to ask.”

Cas frowns, staring intently at Dean like he can read his mind. “You’re obfuscating.”

Before Dean can object or make excuses, Cas says, “The _truth_ , Dean.”

“I want more with you,” Dean blurts out. “More than this stupid, awkward roommate shit we’ve been doing. Like an actual fucking relationship. Like you deciding you wanna stick with my sorry ass for however long we’ve got.”

He slaps a hand over his eyes, feeling the heat of his cheeks against his palm as he mutters, “You get the idea.”

A gentle touch at his wrist pulls his hand down.

It’s hard to get a read on the expression on Cas’ face as he gives Dean a searching look.

“You never said anything before.”

Dean scoffs.

“I might be a dozen different kinds of stupid sometimes, but I’ve got enough sense to not screw up one of the few friendships I’ve still got.”

“You’re not stupid,” Cas says with finality, briefly tightening his grip on Dean’s wrist. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed that Cas had kept holding onto it this entire time, and now that he’s aware of it all he can think of is how nice it feels to have the warm band of his fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

Cas clears his throat nervously, bringing Dean’s attention back to him as he continues, “And you’re not going to ‘screw up’ our friendship, not when I feel the same way.”

“Since when?” he asks, voice reedy.

Cas glances aside before meeting Dean’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

There’s a gnawing feeling of guilt growing in Dean’s gut. Cas is trying to salvage this somehow by _going along_ with his admission. Just when he thinks this can’t get worse.

“You haven’t even been human a whole month,” Dean says, reluctantly shaking Cas’ grip off. He’s not sure what he hates more, undermining what Cas is saying when he wants it to be true or the fact that Cas feels the need to do this. “You’ve barely got a hang of what human emotions are, and all you’ve felt is like, a fraction of-”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts, expression pinched and more than a little frustrated. “Being human might be new to me, but I know myself enough to know what I’m feeling. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t doubt that.”

“Prove it,” Dean challenges, mouth overriding his brain.

Cas squints. 

Dean doesn’t take it back.

After a few long seconds of mutual staring, he reaches up to gently cup Dean’s cheek with one hand. Dean’s eyes flutter half-shut as he leans into the touch before flitting up to meet Cas’ eyes. The other hand comes up, holding Dean in place. 

There’s a question in Cas’ eyes. Heart racing wildly now, Dean gives a small nod.

When Cas’ lips meet his, it’s gentle, almost careful. Dean presses forward; on the off-chance he’s going to have this only once he wants to have something a little less gentle.

Taking the cue, Cas responds in kind, taking charge of the kiss. It’s not as clumsy or fumbling as Dean was expecting the dozens of times he’s imagined it before, it’s _good_. Almost too good actually; distantly, he kind of understands now why Meg was so dazed after her liplock with Cas.

Shoving the thought aside, he lifts his own hands up from where they’d been useless gripping Cas’ shoulders to grip at the back of his head and neck. The small part of Dean’s brain that’s still online manages to acknowledge that Cas’ hair is just as soft as he’d imagined.

Dean doesn’t know how long they keep kissing, and honestly, he doesn’t care. It feels like he’s got adrenaline injected right into his heart. He might die here and now, but, Hell, if he does, he’s dying happy.

Cas eventually pulls back, breathless and dazed. “I- that was-”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, equally breathless.

“Can I-” Cas says, eyes flicking down to Dean’s lips. Dean licks them instinctively, feeling a thrill shoot down his spine as he sees Cas’ pupils blow up, eyes going dark.

There’s probably more they need to talk about, but right now, it really, _really_ doesn’t matter.

“Yeah,” Dean says again, quieter, the words landing in the small space between them. “I think we’ve done enough talking.”

* * *

Sam heads over to the kitchen after what he feels was a reasonable amount of time. He knows better than to get in the middle of a long-overdue talk-slash-argument (it could go either way knowing the both of them), but it’s best for everybody involved if he pops in there to help with the inevitable damage control after.

It’s almost uncomfortably quiet the closer he gets to the kitchen. Either they’d gotten over the shouting stage or were talking like normal adults. Or, just as likely, sending loaded looks at each other instead of talking while Dean continues to stress cook his nerves away and pretend everything is fine. At the rate he’s been going, they’d have enough food to last them the rest of the month easily. 

He opens his mouth to announce his presence as he reaches the entryway to avoid getting shouted at again for accidentally spooking Dean into suffering another bruise and falters, almost running into the doorframe. 

Apparently the reason he isn’t walking into a shouting match, or a silent glaring match, is because they’ve been better occupied aggressively making out against the kitchen counter. The two of them are going at it like there’s no air in the room except what they can find in each other’s mouths which, ugh. He’s obviously happy for Dean, but he didn’t need to ever see his brother aggressively playing tonsil hockey with his best friend.

Before Sam can loudly interrupt, they break apart, a little breathless and apparently not noticing him, which, hey, he’s grateful for. Of course that gratitude is short-lived when Sam registers the heated looks they’re giving each other and, ew, no, Sam did not want to see his brother’s hungry sex-face, he’s seen it enough, thank you. He decides to count his blessings that he didn’t walk in a few minutes later, not willing to linger on the thought of the level of mental scarring he’d have ended up walking in on then.

Cas takes the breather as an opportunity to do more, inching his hand down to squeeze at Dean’s butt and pull him closer. The very, very tiny part of Sam’s brain that hasn’t blue-screened in horror manages to be a little surprised at the forwardness of the gesture; they’d slow-burned themselves through their pining for literal years and apparently that meant slamming forward from zero to a hundred now. Still completely unaware of their accidental audience, Dean groans at the touch, and oh god no, this is reaching brain bleach territory now. 

“Guess you guys finally talked things out,” Sam says awkwardly, making Dean stiffen up. He can’t seem to decide whether to shove Cas back like it’d erase the last few minutes from Sam’s memory or just keep holding on to him since they’re already busted, and ends up doing a hilariously twitchy mix of both. Cas, for his part, slowly turns to look at Sam evenly, though the nice little rosy hue on his cheeks doesn’t help with his attempt to look unaffected. The slightly husky quality to his voice (and god, Sam is actively trying to not think about why his voice is at a lowered timbre) doesn’t help either as he says, “Something like that.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth, like a flustered parrot trying to figure out how to speak, but Sam raises his hands up to forestall him. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything, so I’ll leave you guys to it.” He smirks then. “Congrats on finally getting your heads out of your asses.”

He turns to leave, before deciding he can risk two seconds to leave one parting remark. “Maybe take your celebration somewhere else though like, oh, _either one of your rooms_. We eat here, and I _will_ make you sanitize the entire kitchen if I find you guys sucking face here again.”

Dean’s face turns an almost alarming shade of red impressively quick at that even as he pries one hand off of Cas to flip Sam the bird. Cas drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder, his own pink tint up to his ears now.

Sam chuckles quietly to himself as he walks off. He’d better go and warn Kevin against going to the kitchen for the next few hours, just in case they don’t actually make it out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the end! Hope you enjoyed the ride ;D
> 
> Feel free to come say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://www.starprincecas.tumblr.com), I promise I don't bite :P


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